Through a Mirror, Darkly
by Kryss LaBryn
Summary: Leroux!Erik, and a more thoughtful and mature Christine. I knew he couldn't really be an Angel, however much I wanted to believe it! But then, who was he? Why would he hide from me, unless..? EC
1. The Voice

**"Through a Mirror, Darkly"**

by Kryss LaBryn

_Author's Note: This was influenced by the concept behind Fred Saberhagen's excellent "The Dracula Tapes": he took the basic events of the story, and retold them with different motivations behind the actions. It put a completely different spin on the story. I highly recommend it._

_Of course, I own nothing! But after hanging out with these characters for, oh, about seventeen years, I'm finally ready to write my first fic about them. Please, if you read, review! Reviews make me dance and encourage me to type faster…_

_

* * *

_

_Chapter One: The Voice_

I am not an idiot. Whatever else I may be, as naïve as I was, as much of a dreamer, I was not so stupid as to believe that a real angel from Heaven was descending every morning at eight o'clock to tutor me in voice.

But oh, I wanted to!

I was so lonely! And I missed my poor dear dead father so much. Mama Valerius was very good to me, and very sweet and kind, but I could not really talk to her about my life at the Opera Garnier; she would have worried.

But the Voice was kind, and gentle, and understood. The Voice was there, at the Opera with me. The Voice saw.

Of course I realized almost instantly that the Voice, whatever else it might be, was no angel sent from my father. I had asked the Voice, at Mama Valerius's prompting, if it were the Angel of Music, sent by Papa, and the Voice answered that indeed it was, and seemed quite pleased, but I, innocent though I was, realized almost instantly that if it had indeed been an angel, it would have known all about Papa, and I would not have had to ask. It was rather like the gypsy fortune-tellers that came to town with the fairs, peering into crystal balls, and foretelling exactly what you wanted to hear.

Much later, I discovered that he had indeed lived with gypsies for a time, so that may not have been a coincidence. But oh! I wanted to believe!

And I was so lonely. If I had told Mama Valerius the truth, no only would she have been terribly disappointed, she would have insisted upon finding a way to remove the Voice from my life. Proper young women do not hang about alone in their dressing rooms with strange Voices! But if the Voice was an angel, why, there could be no sin attached, by definition. And I desperately needed a friend.

I told no one, not even the Voice, in whom I confided everything else, that I knew of any deception. For the longest time, I was quite happy in my strange new life, arriving every morning in my dressing room at eight o'clock on the dot (the Voice insisted upon punctuality, and had no patience for "diva airs", that ignored schedules, and kept the rest of the cast waiting at rehearsals), and receiving my instruction for the day. After my lessons, we would often simply sit and talk, the Voice seeming to hover near one end of my little sofa, where a man's head would be, were one sitting there, and I sitting quite comfortably at the other end, talking, apparently, to thin air, about "everything and nothing", for what seemed like hours.

It is those conversations that I miss the most. The Voice was intelligent, well-read and lively; and both compassionate and at the same time possessed of the most wicked sense of humour I have ever encountered. I would be reduced to helpless tears of laughter at the Voice's frighteningly mocking (and accurate) impression of La Carlotta, our Prima Donna, and her fawning lead, an over-large, over-aged, over-acting Italian named Piangi.

In truth, it was not hard to allow myself to believe that there was something other-worldly about the Voice; he (for it was a distinctly male Voice) seemed to know everything that happened at the Opera, even things that occurred behind closed doors, and the Voice itself, the _sound_ of the Voice, was almost unearthly in its beauty. I do not have the words to describe it. Suffice it to say, a command from it would bypass the brain entirely; were it to order me to march off a cliff, I wouldn't have even begun to wonder why until I was at least half-way down. It was primal in its effect.

In fact, that may be what first led me to realize that I loved the Voice. Oh, I was already very _fond_ of the Voice; as I have said, I regarded it as my dearest friend. And I knew I loved the Voice as a friend. But when I awoke one night, with my sheets in most shameful disarray, flushed and aching, and with the sound of the Voice echoing through my head, I realized that what I felt might be something more. Quite a bit more.

I was quite distracted the next morning at my lessons, as you may imagine, and the Voice chided me quite strongly for not concentrating. However, once the lesson was over, it inquired quite gently if anything was the matter. I made haste to assure the Voice that I was only tired after a restless night, and after extracting a promise to drink certain teas before bed if it happened again, the Voice left me. "Go home and get some rest," it said, and bid me adieu.

As much as I cherished our after-lessons talks, I was grateful for the early dismissal, I can tell you! The mention of bed had me blushing furiously; fortunately, I do not think the Voice noticed. In any case, it was not mentioned, for which I was quite grateful.

But I did not leave immediately. Mama Valerius would have been concerned had I arrived home so much earlier that was my wont, and I did not want to have to soothe her concerns that anything might be amiss. I wanted privacy, to think.

Was the Voice truly an angel? I dismissed that possibility out of hand, as I had before. Besides, if it truly were an angel (which was against all logic), then what I was feeling towards it would have been a most terrible sin. Therefore, I would entertain no possibility that the Voice had any supernatural origins.

But what then? _Think, Christine_, I told myself, and tried to follow the matter through step by logical step, as would a detective puzzling out a crime.

Was the Voice supernatural? It certainly had a great deal of information about the secret goings-on at the Opera! And yet, it could certainly not read minds (for which I was increasingly grateful that morning!), or it would have mentioned Papa before I had asked; it would have known of my doubts. Perhaps the Voice, whatever else it may be, was simply a remarkably adept eavesdropper.

_Wherever possible, choose the way of the earthly, the explainable_, I told myself. If there was no logical, earthly way to explain the Voice… Well, if there were not, I would have to rethink many things. But if there were, then what would it be?

So, we had something, some_one_, who was a remarkably adept eavesdropper, giving me lessons in my dressing room…. I paused a moment. _Why here?_ I thought. I had never heard the Voice anywhere else. Indeed, when the Voice first came to me, I had rushed out into the corridor, and checked the (empty) rooms on either side of mine, to find the source of the beautiful, unearthly singing I was hearing. But I could not hear the Voice from anywhere but in my room.

So, the disembodied Voice spoke to me only within the confines of these four walls. But why disembodied? Did having a voice of any sort not indicate a throat to produce it, a tongue to shape the words? Or rather, to turn it about, did the fact that the Voice apparently spoke and sang with no visible body attached necessarily mean that there _was_ no body involved? Hidden away somewhere, perhaps… within these very walls? _Think earthly, think explainable_, I told myself again. Could these facts not be explained away by—

Ventriloquism? Was my Voice simply an unknown ventriloquist?

It did fit. There must have been some property within these walls, but only within these walls, that would allow a talented ventriloquist to manifest his voice within my room. What that property might be I had no idea, but I did not need to be able to explain the _how_ of it in order to accept that it could indeed be so. The wind blows, rain falls; the fact that I was unable to explain _why_ did not prevent rain nor wind.

So. There was someone –a man, apparently—who for some unknown reason hid himself within my walls, and via the arts of the ventriloquist, taught me to sing. Absurd, but earthly. Possible. And if he could hide within my walls, there was no reason why he could not hide within other walls at the Opera too, and overhear all sorts of secret things.

The picture I was painting of the Voice was beginning to become somewhat uncomplimentary, I thought, but I could not forget how kind the strange man had been to me.

But why had he taken such drastic steps to become part of my life? Why had he not simply walked up to me after a rehearsal and introduced himself? Surely, if it was at all possible, he would have taken such a route, unless he thought that for some reason I would not be willing to listen to him.

Or… perhaps it was simply not possible for him to approach me directly. That felt more correct, somehow, but how, or why, would the direct approach have been impossible? I quickly dismissed thoughts of a jealous wife, or a position in society that would not have permitted my tutoring; the Voice already had been so scornfully dismissive of "society" that I had no doubt that the restrictions of position would have meant nothing to him. And I was quite sure that he was not married, although I was at a loss to explain why I felt so.

…Already I was thinking less of him as "the Voice", and more of him as a man. It left a slight ache that I couldn't quite identify, like a distant loss, but I pressed on. It was too late to turn back. I had to puzzle this out.

So, no jealous wife (I smiled faintly of the thought of my Voice as a hen-pecked husband); no position in society to concern him. What then? Why did he insist upon hiding his face behind such a charade?

Hiding his face…

What if… I paused, pressed on… What if he had to literally hide his face? Even from one who I would like to think was a friend to him? He was no escaped convict, hiding out to escape the police, of that I was sure; we would have heard something, were the police searching the area for such a man (there are no secrets in the world of the theatre), and I could not reconcile the depth of his knowledge of music in general, and of the Opera Garnier itself, with the idea of someone on the run from the law. No, to have acquired such intimate knowledge of the Opera, he would have had to have been here for many years, long enough for the trail to have "cooled". He was not on the run from the law.

There must therefore be a more intimate reason why he had never showed himself to me. The only conclusion that I could draw was that he must be very ugly. Very ugly. Ugly enough that he had no doubt what my reaction would have been, had he approached me in a normal manner. I sighed.

Did it matter? I had never been able to picture a face for the Voice. So did it really matter what that face was? I knew his heart, or a portion of it at least: he was kind, friendly, compassionate… Was that not enough?

Involuntarily I remembered my dreams of the night before, imagined kissing the Voice…

Ah, but I'd have to look upon him then, would I not? How could I kiss him without seeing his face? Would I turn away in disgust, friend or no, were I to see it?

"Ah, but all cats are grey at night," quoted a sly traitorous voice in my mind.

Hmmm… That bore further thinking about. _But not here_, I thought, rising from the sofa and gathering my few effects together. Indeed, I had not lied when I had said that I was tired, even if I had not mentioned why, and I had dallied long enough that Mama Valerius would find nothing amiss in my return. I decided to return to our small flat and get some more rest before the rehearsal that afternoon, as the Voice had suggested.

_But_, I vowed silently, _this is not the end_. Wrapping my cloak snugly against the chill of the corridors, I turned out the gas and left.


	2. Is It The Ghost?

**"Through a Mirror, Darkly"**

by Kryss LaBryn

_I own nothing. Please, R&R!_

_

* * *

Chapter Two: Is It The Ghost?_

I felt much better after a rest, and quite enjoyed the short walk back to the Opera for the afternoon's rehearsal. Indeed, the day was so fine that I actually dallied a bit, looking in the windows of many of the shops that I passed, an indulgence I normally avoided, as much of what I saw was too heart-breakingly dear for my modest means. However, this afternoon the shops called "Tarry! Only tarry a while…" to me, and tarry I did. I had left our small flat early enough that I had no fear of arriving late to rehearsal. And indeed, in the window of a seller of used books, I found a small treasure that I ordinarily would have missed.

"Tales and Legends of India" proclaimed the slightly worn and tattered cover, but it was not the title that caught my wandering eye, but the exquisite illustration on the cover. A beautiful young Indian woman strummed an exotic instrument while, behind her, in colours still glowing like jewels even beneath the fine layer of dust, men and women in exotic robes made reverence to a tree draped with garlands and glowing with lights. Somehow it made me think of the Voice, and when I saw how little the seller was asking for it, I rushed in and purchased it. I was conscious of the weight of it in my little bag all the rest of my walk to the Opera. The very smell of it breathed promises of fantastic and wondrous stories…

Of course I left it in my small dressing room with my cloak and bag when I arrived, and hastened to rehearsal.

We were to rehearse one of the crowd scenes in Goethe's Faust, the first time Mephistopheles shows Faust the beautiful, young Marguerite as she spins in her rooms above the streets. It was truly dreadful. I was simply a young maid in the streets below, one of dozens of "spear-holders" who had nothing to do but wander artistically back and forth as a colourful backdrop to the two male leads. Marguerite herself was simply window dressing in this scene. Indeed, it was a wonder that La Carlotta had shown up for it at all; she often would say it was simply "not worth her while" when all she had to do was sit there and look bored while the directors shuffled the rest of us around below. However, we were approaching opening night, and the lighting director, Mauclair, was torn between valiant attempts to "set" the lights, and being driven to distraction by the demands of La Carlotta. I could not help but feel pity for the poor man, even as I was grateful that her ire was directed elsewhere.

"What are you doing? You cannot put that light there! If you put that light there, Piangi will cast a giant black shadow on me, and no one will see anything of me at all! You will have Marguerite in a shadow!"

"Madame La Carlotta," gritted out Mauclair, showing what I considered to be remarkable restraint, "As I told you not five minutes ago, there will be no shadow! This is not the only light on the stage! I must light our male lead as well as our female lead! And you know damn well that your window is still dark at this line--"

The director grabbed his arm and hastily dragged him aside to whisper frantic words in his ear, as La Carlotta began to swell with rage. "You would speak to me this way!" she almost literally spat, "You! You are nothing! You dare to speak to me like this! _I_ am a _professional_," she started to storm down the narrow ladder behind the flat with her "window", "_I_ know where my duty lies! How will my public see me if you set the light up so, you _malicious_, ill-tempered little runt of a--" From my vantage point I saw as her foot slipped through the last rung, unceremoniously depositing her onto her rather ample backside with a shriek which almost deafened us all.

Oh, Lord, I swear I almost hurt myself trying to swallow the laughter! How we all succeeded I'll never know. I will never forget her look of affront as she sat there, legs splayed before her, glaring at us, daring us to laugh at the great diva. Piangi of course hurried over to her and assisted her at once. As soon as she was upright again, she let out a great wail. "Oh, Piangi," she sobbed, throwing herself into his arms, "It was _horrible!_ Something cold grabbed my foot and tripped me! I cannot work now," the tenor patted her back clumsily and murmured comfort, "No, I cannot! Take me home at once," and with a last apologetic look at the directors, Piangi led her away.

"Ah, such acting!" murmured a voice in my ear, "No wonder she has found such a home in the Opera!" I glanced behind me in shock, for it was just the sort of thing the Voice might have said, but it was only the basso playing Mephistopheles. He looked disgusted by her display.

"Perhaps it was the Ghost..?" whispered an alarmed chorus girl beside him, but another nearby chimed in almost instantly, "If it was, then good for him! Even a ghost must have _some_ taste!"

The director sighed, and called, "Back to work, my fine people! Time and tide… Antonio, you will stand in for Piangi. _Say_ his lines, you will _not_ try to sing them. Daaé--" I almost jumped, so unused to being addressed was I, "Daaé, go and sit in the window so Mauclair can finish. _You_ at least seem to know your blocking," and he glared at another girl nearby.

With something akin to relief I carefully climbed the ladder to Marguerite's perch at her spinning wheel and sat down. All I would have to do for the rest of the rehearsal, it would seem, was to look pretty, and pretend to spin. I felt a small twinge of sinful pride, that my devotion to my art had been noticed and rewarded. In the past, I had occasionally drifted off somewhat, but under the Voice's tutelage I was finding it easier and easier to focus on the task at hand.

Of course, it was hard for any of us to maintain any concentration when the Opera Ghost was up to his tricks…

Drat it! There was a thought there, lurking under the surface of my conscious mind, but I dared not reach for it, not while I was supposed to be concentrating! I made a mental note to pursue the thought further, after the rehearsal was over. Now, I needed to concentrate on the directions being given below, and, at the appropriate moments, look pretty and spin.

* * *

_A/N: The version of Faust I'm portraying here is based on a version depicted in one of the "Phantom" movies (the 1989 miniseries with Charles Dance, I am somewhat embarrassed to admit)__, as, although I have_ heard _Faust, I have never_ seen _it, and so am otherwise unfamiliar with the staging of it. "Tales and Legends From India", which will be mentioned again in later chapters, is a beautiful book of my mother's. When exactly it was published I am not certain, as it was during that time at the beginning of the last century when it seems to have been fashionable to not list the date, but it was post-1924 anyways, as this date is mentioned in an advert in the back. However, it contains a story that, as you will see, is very relevant, so I decided that, as these tales have been around for some time, it was not inconceivable that an earlier version of the book could have been in print. My copy, for anyone that is interested, was by M. Dorothy Belgrave and Hilda Hart, and illustrated by Harry G. Theaker. If you ever come across a copy, purchase it immediately; it is a lovely book._


	3. Angel or Phantom?

**"Through a Mirror, Darkly"**

By Kryss LaBryn

_I own nothing._

* * *

_Chapter Three_

After what seemed an eternity of spinning we were finally released for supper while the stage was reset for the evening's performance. I had only a very small role in it, for which I was grateful: I wanted to think. I stopped by my room for my cloak and bag, then hurried off to a nearby café for a few quick mouthfuls.

A thought had almost occurred to me during rehearsal, something about the Ghost. I couldn't quite grasp it, though, so I let my mind wander while I absently sipped my tea. I wondered if the Ghost had really tripped up La Carlotta after all? From my vantage point, I would have sworn that her foot had simply slipped, but then, the hand of a ghost would not necessarily have been visible, would it? I wondered if the Voice had been there, what he may have seen.

At that thought, something seemed to swell in my head, begin to rise from the depths of my subconscious, some great revelation--

But then the door behind me opened, and "Hi, Christine!" called one of the gaggle of ballet girls pressing into the already crowded café, and the moment was lost. I waved, and sat back again, frowning. What had I been thinking of? Something about the Ghost, but what?

The girls sat at a table near me, apparently in great excitement. "What's happened?" I asked.

"We saw the Ghost!" breathed Suzanne, thrilled. "We were walking down the passage to our dressing rooms, when all of a sudden, poof! There he was!"

"Really? My goodness! What did you do?"

"Scream, and faint," laughed Rose. The others giggled, while Suzanne protested.

"I did not! Besides, you lot were all behind me! _I_ was the one out in front, face-to-face with him!"

"Face to _skull_," Meg shuddered. "It was horrible!"

Suzanne shuddered too. "Yes, horrible," she said, half to herself. "He really _is_ a skeleton in dress clothes!"

"Pooh," said Rose, "He was only there a moment!" She turned to me and confided, her eyes sparkling, "He walked right through the _wall!_"

"He was still very ugly!" Meg stated. Something tickled the back of my brain again.

"Really?" I asked diffidently, "What did he look like? Is… is Joseph Buquet right?" The scene-shifter would tell anyone who paused near him for more than a minute of the time he ran into the Ghost on a little stair backstage.

Oh yes, they agreed, Joseph was right. "It was a skull," said Suzanne, "But with the skin still attached, only all stretched and thin, like a mummy."

"And hardly any hair…"

"And no nose!"

"And his eyes _glowed_…"

They chatted on quite happily until the food arrived, then turned to the spectacle of La Carlotta's mishap. I, however, was silent.

My thought had been made manifest.

I sighed deeply. I now rather suspected that the Ghost and my Voice were one and the same being. Was he supernatural? Or was he simply, as Meg so baldly stated, very ugly? He had, apparently, disappeared into thin air in front of them, but--

No, he had "walked through the wall", hadn't he? That was not quite the same thing; there might have been some kind of trickery involved there, too, some kind of trap door or something, such as magicians used. The corridors backstage were very dim; it would be easy enough to use one to give the _appearance_ of having moved through a solid wall, especially if one's audience already considered one a ghost. I sighed again. _Still earthly, still explainable,_ I thought.

I felt rather sad. Were there to be no more mysteries in my life? Were _all_ the miracles around me to be explained away? And no wonder the poor man was hiding in my walls! Still, and I brightened at the thought, if the Ghost truly _was_ my Voice, then I need no longer fear bumping into him during the lonely dark walk to my isolated dressing room, did I? I almost hoped, now, that I _would_ run into the Ghost. It would give me a chance to see him, without his knowing that I knew it was him.

It seemed monstrously unfair that my kind, talented tutor with the sly humour would not have a face to match. His face that I could never imagine, yet always could I picture all too easily the wicked grin he must sport as he described La Carlotta's antics. _At least the glowing eyes sounds… interesting,_ I thought wryly.

Would I reveal my new knowledge to him? Or should I continue to allow him to take the lead, and follow blindly and willingly? I could not decide.

"Christine!"

I jumped. "What?"

They laughed. "It's time to head back," Suzanne said. "Are you coming?"

"Yes, of course, just a moment…" I gathered my things, left money on the table, and followed them out.

* * *

_A/N: More to follow very soon..._  



	4. Tales and Legends

**"Through a Mirror, Darkly"**

by Kryss LaBryn

_I own nothing. Please, R&R!

* * *

_

_Chapter Four: Tales and Legends _

The evening's performance went well; there were minor mishaps, as there inevitably are in any live performance, but nothing that the audience would have noticed, nothing even great enough to invoke the spectre of the Ghost.

I spent a great deal of time trying very hard to concentrate on my performance instead of staring at Box Five. Box Five on the Grand Tier was in shadow, as always; even though it was next to, and at the same level, as the stage; was, indeed, as close to the stage as it was possible to be without actually sitting _on_ the stage itself, I could see nothing.

I didn't _want_ to be staring into the Ghost's box; I needed to concentrate on what I was _supposed_ to be doing, and I was afraid that, if the Voice _was_ the Ghost, and if he were there, that I would arouse his suspicions by doing so. But, try as I might, I couldn't help myself.

Finally, as we waited in the wings between our scenes, Meg Giry whispered in my ear, "Why do you keep peeking at Box Five?"

Embarrassed, I whispered back, "I'm trying to spot the Ghost!"

"No one can _see_ the Ghost when he's in Box Five! Besides, he never shows up until half-way through the first act!"

"How do you know? I whispered in curiosity.

"Mama keeps his box. You should ask _her_ if you want to know about the Ghost!"

"I will do. Thanks!"

And, "Shhh! We're on!" whispered another girl, and on we went.

I found Ma'am Giry, Meg's mother, tidying up the boxes on the Grand Tier after the performance. Now changed into my 'street' clothes, I politely asked her if she had a moment.

"Perhaps," she returned; "What do you want?"

"Meg said that if I wanted to know about the Ghost I should ask you," I answered.

She grunted, then said, "Well, so long as you don't mind if I continue my work while we talk--"

I hastened to assure her that I did not, and straightened a cushion to help.

"Well, then, what do you want to know?"

"Meg caught me trying to spot the Ghost in Box Five this evening, but she said that one never actually _saw_ the Ghost here?"

"No, you don't see the Ghost; you _never_ see the Ghost!"

"Then how do you know that he's here?" I asked, most politely.

"Well, you hear him!"

" 'Hear him,' " I echoed, strangely excited; "What does he sound like? What does he say?"

"He has a man's voice; oh, such a lovely man's voice!"

"The voice of an angel…" I murmured to myself, but she heard me, for she shot me a sharp glance, but said only, "Yes, the voice of an angel. Imagine my surprise, the first time I heard it in a box that I knew to be empty!"

"But what did he say?"

"He usually asks me to bring a footstool for his lady!"

"A footstool?" For his lady? My mind whirled, and for the first time, I knew what jealousy was…

"Yes, but I never hear her. Only sometimes I find a rose that must have dropped from her bodice…"

Ah. There was a lady there because the Ghost _said_ there was a lady there… A pretence, then. I was surprised by the strength of my relief. But Ma'am Giry was chattering on: "And sometimes he brings me a box of English sweets; I'm very fond of those!" Indeed, she must have been; she had only two teeth left in her whole head, that I could see. "He's very kind, a real gentleman, not like some I might mention!"

Well, there could not be _two_ invisible angelic Voices inhabiting the Opera! I had my answer. My Voice _was_ the Ghost.

* * *

_A/N: I have a small confession to make: I had a difficult time naming the previous chapter, and was exceedingly tempted to title it 'It IS The Ghost!' Now you know…_


	5. Pabhavati's Dilemma

**"Through a Mirror, Darkly" **

By Kryss LaBryn

_I own nothing, alas. Please R&R!_

_

* * *

_ _Chapter Five: Pabhavati's Dilemma_

The next day was Sunday; the theatre was dark. Eagerly I dug my newfound treasure out of my bag, and, curled up in a comfortable chair, I read. I devoured the adventures of Rama and Sita, and of the Adventurous Brethren, and then, in the story of 'The Heartless Princess', I found my answer.

They say that it is a foolish man who does not learn from his own mistakes; but that the truly wise man learns from the mistakes of others. I read, and I learned.

Once upon a time, the story went, there lived a prince named Kasa, beloved for his kindness, goodness, and wisdom. He was also extremely ugly. His father the King, wanting an heir to secure the throne, wished his son to marry, but Kasa refused, thinking that there was no princess in all the world who would be willing to do so. Finally, Prince Kasa made a statue of the most perfect woman imaginable, and said, "I will have her and no other," thinking that that would be an end to it.

Then his father's messengers found Princess Pabhavati…

Entranced, I read on.

o o o o o

Monday morning found me, as usual, in my dressing room, having my lesson. It was not going well.

"No, no, _no!_" My poor tutor was becoming absolutely furious with me, and probably frustrated as well. "Damn it, Christine, you _know_ this part! What is wrong with you? You sang it better before I came! Where is your breathing? Where is your emotion! You sound like a duck being slaughtered! _Concentrate_!"

It was too much. "I can't," I said, stifling a sob, and angrily brushing away unbidden tears. I was still undecided how I should proceed with him, and it had been another restless night, with images of the Ghost mingling with that of the Indian tale, and the sound of his Voice… Concentration, this morning, was utterly beyond me. "I'm sorry," I said, striving for calm, for the professionalism he always insisted upon, and failing miserably; "I'm so sorry. I'm just… I've just… I can't concentrate right now. I tried, but I just can't. I'm sorry I'm disappointing you," I whispered, and curled up in a corner of the couch, trying to hide the tears I couldn't seem to stop from a man I wasn't even sure could see them.

He was silent a moment, then, gently, "Christine…"

"I'll be all right; just give me a moment, please," and to my utter mortification, I hiccoughed.

He didn't seem to notice. "Christine, forgive me my harshness. If I am disappointed it is only because I know you are capable of so much more. What is wrong?"

"No; you were right to be harsh," I hiccoughed again, and gave a small giggle at it despite my misery, then sighed. "I shouldn't let anything interfere with my performance…"

He sighed too. "Christine, my dearest, when I insist upon professionalism it's to ensure you don't end up like Carlotta. We are all of us human; sooner or later there are bound to be stresses in our lives stronger than we can cope with alone."

I said nothing, but listened intently. _All_ of us human? Was he admitting it?

Softly, he continued: "When these stresses interfere with our performances, it's not being unprofessional; it's being human. Even the most perfectly tuned Stradivarius will break under enough stress."

I nodded my understanding, then, thinking that perhaps he could not see me, whispered, "I can see that."

"Well, then. You are not a Stradivarius, Christine; you are not unfeeling wood and metal. You are a young woman, which is quite enough stress as it is, I understand."

His attempt at levity made me smile. Perhaps he could see me at that, for he continued, "Whatever it is, you don't have to go through it alone. Please, tell me? Let me help."

I considered the matter seriously, I truly did. But I had no way to articulate my thoughts, my feelings yet, and I did not want to damage the trust between us. But he was right; it wasn't a burden I could shoulder alone.

"Thank you, Angel," I said softly, looking back over my shoulder to the corner where the Voice appeared to be 'sitting' beside me, "But I think I need a woman's perspective on this. You're right though, I do need to talk to someone." I sighed deeply. "Perhaps I'll see if I can make Mama Valerius understand…" Her mind was wandering more and more, these days, but she was the only one who knew anything of my Voice at all.

"Please do so, then," he replied. "And if there's anything I can do to help, please tell me. I am yours to command," he added softly.

"Thank you, Angel, I will."

"Then go home and rest," he said quietly, "We will continue tomorrow."


	6. Raoul

**"Through a Mirror, Darkly"**

by Kryss LaBrynn

_ I own nothing. Please, R&R! _

* * *

_Chapter Six: Raoul_

Now, I should mention that there had been a new face about the Opera recently. When I was a child in Brittany, I had spent one wonderful summer in the company of a most pleasant young boy named Raoul, the Comte de Chagny's younger brother. A few years later, when he was fifteen, we ran into each other once again, and spent a rather awkward evening with each other. That was almost five years ago now, and I hadn't seen him since. But here he was, fresh from the naval academy, according to the gossips, and taking a shore leave before heading out on an expedition to the Arctic.

To be perfectly honest, I hadn't recognized him at first; as I said, it had been four years or so since I last saw him, and the small moustache, and the change in his bearing between that of an awkward boy and the confident young man he was now disguised him almost completely. And once I did recognize him, I admit I rather avoided him. As I said, the last time I saw him had not been an entirely pleasant evening: he kept blushing and stammering, and was not at all the care-free companion of my youth.

No doubt most, if not all of the other girls at the Opera, had they recognized a handsome young nobleman from their youth, would have rushed straight up to him, throwing themselves upon him with cries of "Raoul! It's been so _long!_ How have you _been?_" I, however, showed more restraint; I hadn't acquired a wealthy 'patron' for the sake of the small luxuries he would provide, and I never would. I was not interested in becoming anyone's plaything; when I did finally welcome someone to me, it would be for love, and for love alone. Besides, even if I did return the feelings he apparently had for me (assuming he still felt them, over four years later!), his family would never allow me to be anything _but_ a plaything. I could imagine all too well the horrified look the older Comte would have, were an overly-familiar opera wench from his brother's childhood to make such a display of herself in public!

So you can imagine how disagreeably surprised I was to find him lurking in the corridor outside my room.

The absolute _last_ thing I wanted after such an emotional encounter with my Voice was to fiddle about with this arrogant young man, so I pushed past him as if I did not know him at all. However, he called after me in tones of desperation and despair, "Christine!"

I truly could _not_ bear to deal with him, not now, so I simply tossed over my shoulder, "I'm sorry, monsieur; I am not accepting patrons at this time," and practically fled. Looking back, I suppose I should have said that I was not accepting any _more_ patrons; that might have chased him off for good, but then, it might not have. Men are so funny about such things sometimes. In any case, it stopped him long enough for me to make my escape.

o o o o o

As for Mama Valerius… I _tried_ to make her understand, I truly did. But she kept getting so mixed up… "No, Mama; the Voice _is_ the man I love!"

"But I thought he was an angel," she looked lost, and a little worried.

I sighed; then, thinking that perhaps part of the problem might be that, old as she was, she might not want to face the idea that there had _never_ been an Angel of Music visiting me, I tried a different tack. "He _was_ an angel, Mama, but now he's come down to me in an earthly form."

"As the handsome young man."

"Well, no; that's part of the problem…"

"Isn't he a handsome young man?"

"No Mama," I said, striving for patience, for I truly did love her, "I think that he had only so much… beauty to draw upon, without blinding anyone who beheld him. And his voice and his spirit are _so_ beautiful that he didn't have any left over for his face."

"Ahh.." she smiled warmly; "He knew what would be important to you!"

"Yes, exactly!"

"But then who's the handsome young man?" she asked, confused again.

"There _is_ no handsome young man, Mama! There's just the Angel!"

"Yes, there is," she said gaily, "He comes and visits me sometimes! Such a nice boy. He asks about you all the time! _I_ think," and she leaned forward a bit, her eyes sparkling with glee, "_I_ think that he fancies you!" She sat back in satisfaction.

Oh, my God. He wouldn't have. "Mama, is this 'handsome young man' a blond? With a small moustache?"

"Oh, you've met him then?"

I gritted my teeth in fury. How _dare_ he? "Mama, is he Raoul? The Vicomte?"

"Yes, that's the one," she said, fingers busy with her crocheting, quite oblivious to my mounting anger. "Such a _nice_ young man!"

"Mama, he is _not_--" I stopped myself, then took her hands in mine, forcing her to look at me. "Mama, this is very important. You have to try to understand."

"Of course, my dear. What is it? Is something wrong?"

"Yes, Mama, something _is_ wrong. Mama, this man is _not_ my Angel. The Angel came to earth for love of me, Mama, and I love him. This young man, Raoul, wants to take me away from my Angel, I'm sure of it. I can't allow that to happen. Promise me, Mama; promise me you won't receive him any more. I don't want him around!"

"Well, all right, then, dear, if you're sure." She seemed a bit doubtful. "He _is_ very handsome, you know!"

"Yes, Mama, I know, but you said yourself that that isn't what I'm interested in!"

"No, I suppose not. Very well, then." And she went back to her crocheting, muttering to herself all the while. I could only hope that she would remember, and do as I asked.

I was in an absolutely dreadful temper for the rest of the evening, although I tried to hide it from Mama. Finally I made some of the tea the Voice had recommended, and, pleading headache, took myself early to bed. As irritated as I was with Raoul for taking liberties he had no right to, I was sure I wouldn't have gotten a wink of sleep without the tea, but I did not dare show up tired and out of sorts to a _third_ practice!

At least the talk with Mama Valerius had helped me straighten out my own emotions. I still wasn't quite sure what to do, though. I certainly wasn't used to actively pursuing anyone, let alone disfigured recluses hiding in dressing room walls, and, somehow, I doubted that anyone I could think of, even the 'loosest' members of the corps, would be able to offer any practical advice. Not that I would ever divulge my Voice's secret.

As to Raoul… I truly did not know what to do about him. I half-suspected that I would have to have a very serious talk with him, sometime soon, if I wanted him to go away. But I truly did _not_ want to talk to him, at all. Perhaps if I just avoided him, he'd eventually get the hint. One might hope, anyways…

On that somewhat discouraging note, I drifted off.


	7. The Heartless Princess

**"Through a Mirror, Darkly"**

by Kryss LaBryn

_I own nothing. Please, R&R!_

_

* * *

_

_Chapter Seven: The Heartless Princess_

One thing I _will_ say for falling asleep thinking about Raoul, I had absolutely _no_ dreams about the Voice. I wasn't quite sure if I was relieved or disappointed the next morning, but as I bundled up and left our small flat, I decided to settle on relief. It was good to face the day, and the morning's practice, feeling chipper and relaxed, instead of tired and frustrated.

Besides, I had my wonderful book of Indian fairytales to share with the Voice! I particularly wanted to show him "The Heartless Princess", although I wasn't quite sure how to bring it up… "Angel, here's a wonderful story you should read! It's most enlightening. What's it about? Oh, well, there's a very ugly but extremely talented Prince who falls in love with a beautiful Princess, and his father suggests that he hide from her for a year before she sees him! Interesting, isn't it?" Oh, a fine time he would have with _that!_ "What's that? What happens next? Er… well, she bribes a servant to point him out in a crowd, and absolutely repulsed by his appearance, she flees home to her father…" Yes, I could see _that_ conversation helping things!

Drat it. I suppose I could have him 'sit' next to me on the sofa, after practice, and read to him… I wouldn't start with _that_ story, of course, but perhaps I could… get to it, in time… Drat. If only he would just come out and sit with me, in person! I had a pretty good idea of what he looked like, thanks to the tales of the Opera Ghost; surely he might trust in my affection and respect for him to prevent my screaming like a silly ninny and running away! I sighed. I didn't really suppose that he would… Still… Still.

Practice went well. I was able to put aside my slight melancholy and actually concentrate on the lesson, for a change. My tutor seemed pleased, and occasionally even praised me, causing me to flush in pleasure. He did so rarely, only when he truly felt I had earned it, and as a result, when he told me "Well done," I knew he truly meant it.

"Thank you, Angel."

"You did well. I trust that you were able to have a talk with Mama Valerius? It went well?"

"It was… enlightening, anyways," I said, and winced slightly.

"Mmm… Yes. I see. Well," he sighed, "It seems to have helped somewhat, at least. Tell me about your evening."

"Oh, well…" I sat at the end of my sofa, in my usual place, "It wasn't terribly exciting. I went home and talked to Mama Valerius. I had an early night."

"The two were related, I take it," he said wryly. The Voice now appeared to be coming from the other end of the sofa, in _his_ usual place.

"Not entirely unrelated, no. But look what I found," I took the small volume out of my bag, "It's a book of fairytales from India! Would you like to hear some?"

"It would please me to hear what pleases you," he said gravely. I was not quite sure how to take that, so I simply opened the book and read 'The Noose of Fate', and then, ' "Who'll Buy My Mangoes?" '.

"I wonder what mangoes taste like?" I said. "I gather they're some kind of fruit…"

"Juicy," said the Voice distantly; "Sweet."

"Have you had them?"

"Not for a long while."

"No wonder the book reminds me of you! Have you been to India?"

"I was in the East for several years," he replied; "It was not a happy time." He fell silent.

"I'm sorry to hear that," I said softly.

"Well… Well."

I hated to hear him sound so sad. "I wish you'd come and join me," I said, rather wistfully.

"I beg your pardon?" Did he sound… nervous?

"Join me," I patted the sofa next to me. "Come out and sit with me."

Silence.

"…Or are you planning to stay hidden for a year, like Kusa?"

"Like Kusa?" he echoed.

"Poor ugly Prince Kusa," I opened the book, flipped to the page I wanted, and read, " 'Alas, my Father, how will such a beautiful Princess behave when she sees how hideous I am? She will surely flee from me at once.'

" 'Have no fear, my son,' answered King Okkaka, 'for I will revive an ancient custom of our family to protect you. This custom decrees that a bride shall not look upon the face of her husband until one year after her marriage. Therefore, for one whole year, you must only meet your bride in a darkened apartment.'

" 'But how will such a thing avail me in the end?' asked Kusa doubtfully. 'I shall still be ugly when the Princess beholds me.'

" 'That will not matter,' replied the King; 'for, during that year, your bride will have learned to love you so much that, when she looks upon you at last, you will not be ugly in her eyes.' " I paused, then, when he made no reply, softly asked again, "Do you mean to wait a whole year before I may see you?"

"You will never see me," he whispered sadly.

My heart ached for him. Tears pricked my eyes as I said, even more quietly, "Joseph Buquet is right, isn't he? About how you look."

Another pause, so long that I feared he had left, and then, a breath so quiet I would have missed it, had I not been straining for the slightest sound: "Yes."

There was between us a silence so profound I feared it would last until the end of the world, then he gently asked, "How does it end, your story?"

I smiled. " 'Look at me, Pabhavati. I am still as ugly, alas! as when you fled from me.'

"Pabhavati gazed at him steadfastly, but instead of the loathing which poor Kusa had been wont to read in her eyes of late, he saw nothing but wonder and tenderness there now.

" 'Surely you are changed,' she cried, 'for to me you no longer appear ugly.'

"But it was Pabhavati who had altered. Instead of the ugliness of Kusa's appearance, she was now able to see his goodness, wisdom, and courage reflected upon his countenance, and henceforward she was a tender, loving wife to the husband she had once so cruelly scorned."

I thought I heard a muffled sob. "It's called 'The Heartless Princess'," I said, gently closing the book and placing it upon my dressing table. I pressed a small kiss to its cover with my fingertips. "Borrow it, if you like."

He said nothing. I gathered my few things, whispered, "Tomorrow, then," and left, softly closing the door behind me.

* * *

_A/N: Quotes from "Tales and Legends of India", by M. Dorothy Belgrave and Hilda Hart, published circa 1930? By Raphael Tuck & Sons, Ltd, used without permission; sorry. But it was in a good cause…_


	8. What About Pabhavati?

**"Through a Mirror, Darkly"**

by Kryss LaBryn

_I own nothing. Please, R&R!_

_

* * *

_

_Chapter 8: What About Pabhavati?_

The next several lessons were somewhat odd, for me. For the Voice, I couldn't say… He seemed determined to act as if nothing had happened. I couldn't decide if I was disappointed or grateful. However, he did seem more determined than ever to act the paternal angelic benefactor, rather than my confidante, and for that small distance between us I was sorry. I truly did not know how to change that, though, so I simply followed his lead, hoping that, sooner or later, he might trust me again.

It was at the end of one night's performance that Raoul finally managed to secure an interview with me. We had finished our curtain calls, and I was just in that moment of confusion when one leaves the well-lit stage for the darkness of the wings, temporarily blind, when I felt a hand grab my arm, and a voice I did not recognize, rough and determined, said, "Come with me!"

I was naturally alarmed, and started to struggle, but he pulled me only a little way off to the side, so as to be out of the way, and, I suppose, have some semblance of privacy. "Oh, for pity's sake, Christine, stop that!" he grated. "It's only me."

And indeed, as my eyes adjusted, who did I see before me, but my old childhood companion? "Raoul!" I shook his hand off, irritated.

"Who else were you expecting?"

"I wasn't expecting _anyone_ to be grabbing me in the dark!" I said sharply.

"Oh come, it was hardly dark, and when I saw you heading straight past me again, well, I couldn't help myself! You've been avoiding me," he accused.

Two sentences, and I was already annoyed enough to start stamping my feet like a child. God! Had he never walked out of bright sunlight into a darkened room? There's a reason they keep the wings clear… "I didn't want to talk to you," I settled for saying.

"Didn't want to? Or weren't _permitted_ to?"

"What _are_ you talking about?"

"Your tutor, Christine! Is it he who forbids you to talk to me?"

Oh, God. I suddenly felt quite ill. "What tutor?"

"Don't play the coy minx with me, Christine!" He was obviously agitated. "Your room is hardly sound-proof; anyone passing by can hear your lessons from miles away! Who is he? Some bloody handsome tenor, I suppose?"

"So what if he is?" I answered hotly. "And there is _no-one_ with any _legitimate_ business outside my room during my lessons! What are you doing? Have you been listening at my keyhole? Forevermore, why?"

"Because I love you," he answered miserably; "I have missed you terribly the past four years! I meant to find you again, but you'd already moved on, and I couldn't track you down… I only found you here again by accident!"

"That's hardly _my_ fault, Raoul."

"I had thought… I had hoped that, perhaps, knowing _my_ name, you might… find me."

I said nothing.

"I hated that last evening we spent together, Christine; you were so beautiful, and good, and I knew that I could never make you my wife..!"

"I hated that evening too, Raoul," I said gently, steering him to sit on an unused set piece; "Because I never _wanted_ to be your wife!"

He stared at me uncomprehendingly. "I thought you cared for me! I _know_ you cared for me!"

"Oh Raoul, I did; I was very fond of you! You were like a brother to me, that wonderful summer, and I did love you, _as a brother_. We both know you could never be anything more to me."

"I would make an honest woman out of you, whatever my family said!"

"They'd cut you off, if you tried anything so foolish," I said rather sharply. Would he not see reason? Could I _not_ make him understand?

"I don't care!" he cried. "I'd give it all up: wealth, title, position, to have your hand! The meanest hovel would seem a paradise if you were but there to share it with me!"

"Pretty words," I said as kindly as I could, "But what makes you think that _I_ would want to live in a hovel? I have a life here, Raoul," I gestured at the great edifice of the Opera that enclosed us; "What makes you think that I would want to leave it?"

"But you wouldn't have to perform anymore," he said, confused.

"_Have_ to--? Raoul, I _love_ to perform! My life is singing! You know that! How could you threaten to take me away from all this and think that I'd be happy? I have worked _hard_, Raoul," tears pricked my eyes, but I dared not let them fall; he would _not_ understand them; "How hard you'll never know, to be where I am today. This-- being here, at the Opera-- is my _dream!_ Raoul, _I don't need rescuing!_"

"But you could still sing," he said desperately; "I love to hear you sing; you know that!"

"It would not be enough, Raoul. I'm sorry," and I turned to leave.

"So," he sneered, "_This_ is how your tutor would have you treat an old friend, is it?" Blast; I had hoped he'd forgotten that thought… "An _honest_ man would allow you suitors! What are his intentions, Christine? Where does he come from? _Where does he go?_"

I stopped, very still. "Have a care, Raoul…"

"I will _not!_ Who is this man, Christine, who comes and goes from your dressing room without using the door? What is he?" He was in a towering rage; I was glad that there were still stagehands about, not too far away. I could call out, if I had to…

"He is an Angel, Raoul; he has no need of such earthly things as bodies! Take care that fire from Heaven does not destroy you for interfering!"

"An angel… Christine," suddenly he was the strong protector, "Christine, I think someone is making a game of you."

"A game of me? You think me so simple?"

"It is not your fault; I know the ecstasy that music can throw you into; I heard your ecstasy at the sound of his voice! Let me help you," he said gently, coaxingly; "Let me free you from his influence!"

"Raoul," I said once again, firmly, "_I don't need rescuing. _Leave me alone!" And with that, frankly, I fled.

For the next few days I was in terror of meeting Raoul again; terrified that he would come across me again in some dark corner and attempt to 'save me' by force, if necessary. I would not have put it past him to throw me over his shoulder and toss me into a carriage bound for God-knows-where, if he thought that such a thing was needed to protect me from myself, and the clutches of my 'evil tutor'. However, for once luck was with me, for he stopped shadowing my steps and, although I saw him once or twice in the distance, he gave no sign that he had seen me. I hoped, I _prayed_, that I had gotten through to him, that he had understood.

I also hoped and prayed that the Voice had not noticed his attentions. I was dreadfully afraid that he might not understand that I truly did not want anything to do with the young Vicomte.

I was afraid that he might leave.

But the Voice was at the Opera; the Voice saw everything. The Voice knew.

"Who is this young man you've been avoiding recently?" he asked after one lesson, a little too casually; "Anyone that I should know about?"

"No one," I replied, then added, "He was an old childhood friend, that's all."

"One would think that, if he were an old friend, one would greet him joyfully, instead of avoiding him."

"He _was_ an old childhood friend," I replied, somewhat acerbically. "If he had remained my childhood friend, I would indeed have been glad to see him, but I'm afraid his intentions seemed to have changed."

"Changed, indeed?"

"Indeed, changed. And not for the better, in my mind." I sighed. "I have talked to him. I hope that will be an end to it."

"You do not _wish_ to have a handsome young nobleman pursuing you?" he asked, somewhat snarkily. "That has not been my experience with young girls of the Opera. Think of the opportunities he could afford you!"

Was he jealous? Well, I would put paid to that. But if he was jealous, then that might mean that he _did_ care for me, as I cared for him… Dared I hope?

In any case, I answered back most audaciously (for I would never have dared talk to a _real_ angel with such unwonted coarseness! But it had been a hard practice, and I was tired…), "As if I would want to be pursued by him! What would I do, but be shut up in some flat to await his pleasure, spreading my legs for him whenever he felt like dropping by between rounds of his clubs?"

"He might make an honest woman of you."

It was almost a relief to have to articulate what had been irritating me so much about him. "And then what? Even supposing his family accepted a theatre slut into the family, and didn't cut him off and leave me tied to a penniless and useless ex-nobleman, do you suppose he would let me continue here? Do you think I want to spend the rest of my life singing only to the cat, and whatever spoiled little noble brats he managed to spawn upon me?" The thought made me so furious I could hardly speak. "I will _not_ leave my life here; it is what I have always dreamed of! I want _nothing_ to do with him!"

I surprised myself with my vehemence. Did I surprise him? Perhaps he was reassured; he only whispered, "You might come to love him."

"And what of Pabhavati?"

The non-sequitor seemed to throw him. "Pabhavati?"

"A year of marriage allowed her to see past the façade of her husband's face to the true spirit underneath. What do you think _I_ would see, after a year of marriage to _him?_"

Silence for a moment, and then he only said, "Let me know if he ever bothers you again," and the matter was dropped.


	9. The Kiss

**"Through a Mirror, Darkly"**

by Kryss LaBryn

_I own nothing. Please, R&R!_

_

* * *

_

_Chapter 9: The Kiss_

I was not taking my usual route back to my dressing room. I _never_ took the back way; it was too dark, too scary. But I wanted to avoid Raoul; once again, after almost a fortnight of peace, he seemed determined to corner me again. What had changed, I did not know, but I did _not_ want to have another confrontation. And as scary as I found this alternate route, to my mind, it was by far the lesser of two evils.

He was not expecting me.

We rounded a corner at the same time, and stopped, face to face.

Face to skull…

I stepped back in shock, less at his appearance, which I had already heard described many times in graphic detail, and more in simple surprise at meeting _anyone_ in that lonely corridor.

"God!" he grated, and turned to flee, but I cried out "Angel!", and he hesitated a bare moment, long enough for me to rush and catch him by his cloak. "No, please, don't go!"

He half-turned, glancing back at me in… anger? Dread? He would have pulled free but I knotted his cloak in my fists and would not let go. "Please, Angel--"

I truly believe he was about to loosen the garment and leave me standing with it, but footsteps echoed down the corridor behind him, and he hesitated again. I took the opportunity to grab his arm, and, half-pulling him, said "This way, in here--" and somehow, half leading, half dragging him, got him into the safety of my room.

Swiftly I closed and locked the door behind us, against inconvenient intruders, and turned to face him.

He stood half-turned, as though he wished to flee, but said nothing. Watched me. And with eyes straining in the dim light of an underground dressing room with the gas turned low, I finally saw my benefactor. My friend. I was finally able to drink my fill of him.

The first thing that struck me, in those dim shadows, was his height. I am not a short woman, but even curled about himself as he was, he topped me by a good head. He was also skinny—_slender_ was too fine a word for a man whose arm I had almost been able to encircle with my hand. I could very well see why he was thought a skeleton. As for his face…

"Through ugly, and out the other side," as our charwoman had once said of another. It was true. His face was _so_ ugly, so beyond the realm of the normal, as to no longer be constrained by usual standards of beauty. He was simply… my Angel.

He still stood motionless, braced, it seemed, against my stare. I could not quite read the expression in those strange, glowing, golden eyes: hope, I thought I saw there, and something akin to longing, but the overwhelming emotion seemed to be sheer terror.

He was paralysed with fear! _Of what,_ I wondered? Of… me? My reaction? It gave me the courage to move, to go to him and gently raise a wondering hand to his cheek. His poor, pale, gaunt cheek… He stifled a flinch, and my throat tightened in sympathy. Had so many hurt him, that he automatically expected only pain from another's touch? Softly, slowly, as though he were a wounded animal, I brushed my fingertips down the side of his face.

He shuddered then, closing his eyes, and some of the tension seemed to leave him. Hesitantly, he raised his own hand to mine, pressing it to his poor face; so softly I might have missed it, leaning into my caress. "Christine…" he breathed, low, broken. He was trembling so hard that I honestly feared for him.

How I ached for him! With my other hand I brushed a long wisp of hair back, and whispered, "Angel--" I paused, then began anew. "Angel, what is your name?"

He looked at me, puzzled, I thought. "My name?" he echoed. A pause, then, "Erik. My name is Erik."

"Erik," I breathed. Gently, I pulled his head to mine, whispering, "I love you, Erik," and, closing my eyes, I pressed my lips to his.

His lips were soft and cool against mine. After a moment, his arms gently enfolded me, and we stood thus for a long moment, in rapture, complete.

Then his arms crushed me to him, his mouth opening under mine. Then, oh God! his tongue flicked out and tasted my lips and I opened my mouth to his and his tongue entered me, licked the insides of my mouth as I tasted him back, suckling his tongue a long moment, _more, yes, my love, more!_ His body was hard against mine as, weak with desire, I sank to my knees, pulling him down, my hands on his head urging him closer, then he gently pressed me back to the floor, his lips leaving mine to trail kisses and endearments against my ear, down my neck, as I did to him, gasping with the overwhelming pleasure of it, his leg pressing between mine as my hips rocked his with an instinctive rhythm, and then there was no more room for thought…

When I awoke, I was curled up on my sofa. The room was not dim as I remembered, but well-lit and cheerful. I was alone.

I almost wept then, thinking it had all been a dream, but then I smelt his scent on me, sandalwood and musk and earth, and I could still feel him pressed against me, still taste him on my lips. Not a dream then; thank God, not a dream. Why had he left?

I sat up, almost surprised that I was still dressed, that such strong emotions could come from a kiss alone, and realized that my underthings were damp and sticky. Hastily, not knowing when-- if? he might return, still trembling, I changed.

It was some little while later that I heard him softly exclaim, "You're up!" He sounded disappointed.

I looked up from my book and smiled. "Hello, Erik."

"I'm sorry; I had hoped to return before you awoke. I needed to-- Well, never mind. How do you feel?"

"I am fine, Erik, and you?"

"Oh, quite well," he answered diffidently.

"Will you not join me?"

"Join you?"

"Yes, I had hoped you would still be here when I awoke." I moved over, patted the cushion beside me. "Please. Come and sit with me."

A pause, then, "Very well," and, to my surprise, the great mirror at the end of my room slid aside, and he stepped through.

To my disappointment he was wearing a mask, a soft silk thing with silver embroidery about the eyes, that concealed his whole head. He stopped just inside my room, then his cloak swayed momentarily, as if he had started to take a step but checked himself.

"Please, Erik," I said, "You don't need to wear that. Take it off?"

"I'd rather not."

"You show your face to the others of the Opera," I reminded him gently, "May _I_ not see it again?"

"It's different," he said awkwardly; "They see the Ghost, not… Erik."

I sighed. "I understand," I said, and truly I did. I myself wore costumes on stage that I would be mortified to be seen in on the street, where they would be looking not at an Egyptian slave girl, but at me. Christine.

"Come and sit," I said again, and, finally, he did.

He was somewhat stiff, and obviously uncomfortable. Was he regretting what had occurred already? I hated the awkwardness between us, so, seeking to break the tension, I said, "Have I told you about La Carlotta's last mishap?"

"No, you haven't," and his head tilted attentively.

So I told him all about it: the shriek ("Yes, we heard _that_ up in Heaven!"), and her look of utter indignation. "She looked _so_ ridiculous, I don't know _how_ we didn't laugh," I giggled. "I think if we had she might have actually exploded from sheer rage!"

He laughed too, a warm, thrilling sound, and I was reminded again of the feel of his lips, his tongue on mine… "I can well imagine!"

Oh dear, was he reading my mind? Flustered, I looked down at my hands in my lap, _which had been pressed so hard against his own; oh God, I don't think I can do this!_ But he continued, "Being brought low before those she considers her inferiors would be the ultimate humiliation for Carlotta…"

Oh, thank God; not a mind reader then! "Of course she said that something grabbed her, and half the chorus thought it was the Ghost expressing his opinion of her… Was it the Ghost, Erik?" I half-smiled at him sideways, through lowered lashes.

He chuckled, making my stomach quiver anew, and said, "No; no, if anyone grabbed her, it was not I." He sighed slightly, and in a moment of revelation I said, "It must be very trying to be blamed for every powderpuff that goes missing."

He chuckled again, and said, rather slyly, "Well, not _all_ the missing powderpuffs are _not_ my fault!" Then, sobering slightly, "I must admit, I did enjoy causing the odd bit of havoc the first few years, but nowadays…" He sighed deeply.

How long have you been here, Erik?"

"I have always been here," he replied, staring straight ahead; "When the first curtain rose on the first act of the first performance, I had been here ten years already."

I was taken aback. It had been so hard to judge, between his face itself and the dark, but, "You are not a young man, are you, Erik?" I asked softly.

He looked away slightly, but made no reply. I raised my hand to his shoulder, but he had already risen. He held a hand out to me, and said, suddenly, "Let us sing, Christine."

He helped me rise, then, without warning, launched into the duet from Othello, and, God help me, I truly did not know how I was ever to receive instruction from him again, without that angelic voice bringing me to my knees, weak with desire. Then it was Desdemona's turn, and I sang with a passion and an understanding I had never felt before. Never before had I truly realized, truly _understood_, with every fibre of my being, the madness of a love so deep it would drive Othello to kill his lover rather than lose her. Had I thought that Erik, suddenly so cold and awkward, did not truly care for me? I now knew otherwise. His love for me, expressed in every thundering note of the vengeful Moor's song, was as great as mine for him, as pure, as passionate. I suddenly felt a great welling of sympathy for any poor fool who might try to come between us.

Finally, the duet ended, and we stood, face to face, silent. I was rather overwhelmed by the moment. And suddenly I was rather glad, in a perverse way, that he _was_ wearing the mask, for the sight of his mouth, his lips, giving sound to that Voice would surely have undone me. _Lessons will be most difficult,_ I reflected wryly, _if every time I hear him I want to tear my clothes off and throw myself at him!_ Not very good for my concentration…

He seemed to be thinking along similar lines, for he sighed, a bit wistfully, and murmured, "It's just as well…"

"Just as well..?"

He straightened, and said, "You have learned all that I can teach you," and added solemnly, and a bit formally, "You can now, Christine Daaé, give to men a little of the music of Heaven."

"Ah," I said sadly, "No more lessons."

"Well, not as such, no," he said, "But you will still need to practice, and there will be many roles for you to master. You are not quite done with your teacher yet."

I smiled then, and reached for his hand. "I'm glad," I said; "I would not want to think--"

I was interrupted by a sudden thunderous knocking on my door. And, drat it, drat it, _drat it_, Raoul's voice calling to me.

"Christine! _Christine!_ I know you're in there with him! For pity's sake, Christine, let me in!"

"Oh, God," I whispered, and looked up to Erik in fear. "What do I do? He'll break the door in if he continues like that!"

"Come," he said, and, grabbing my hand, pulled me to the mirror. It slid aside, and I think, I _think_ it closed again behind us before the lock gave, and Raoul burst into my room behind us. I was shaking in terror. Erik gathered me in close. "It's all right," he whispered against my hair, "The glass is thick and quite strong, and he'll never find the catch. We're safe."

"Oh God, Erik--" I sobbed, muffling my voice in his shirtfront.

"We're safe," he repeated, gently stroking my hair; "We're safe.

"Come with me."

* * *

_A/N: I'm sorry; it's going to take me a few days to finish the next chapter, due to mundane considerations. However, please rest assured that I will post again as soon as possible. And if you _do_ purchase "Tales and Legends", let me know what you think!_


	10. In The House on The Lake

**"Through a Mirror, Darkly"**

by Kryss LaBryn

_I own nothing. Please, R&R!_

_

* * *

_

_Chapter 10: In The House on the Lake_

The narrow corridor in which we found ourselves was quite black; I was barely able to see my own hand in front of my face, and even Erik's white shirtfront was but a pale glimmer in the gloom. The rest of him, dressed in black as he was, was quite invisible, except for his eyes. His eyes, as I saw as he glanced back and took my hand, glowing golden in the dark like a cat's eyes, much more brightly here than in my room. And perhaps they lent him something of the ability of the cat to see in that darkness; or perhaps he simply knew the way very well. In any case, he led me, sure-footed as I stumbled, through that perpetual night, until at last we rounded a corner and he paused. I heard a small _clink_, and a dim shaft of light from a small dark lantern gleamed in his hands, almost blinding me.

He leaned in close, and whispered in my ear, "The way we must take passes through inhabited areas of the cellars; we must be silent if we wish to avoid discovery." I nodded my understanding, and he continued, "Ideally I would have brought you by way of the lake, but it is too long a trip for you to make in the dark, and I cannot carry you all the way myself. There is another door into my house not too far away, though, but I'm afraid it involves some crawling. Come," and he again took my hand and led me along.

How strange it was to see my familiar Opera from such an odd perspective! You must understand that we were still in the upper cellars, where various 'properties' and sets were stored, and where much of the machinery that ran the magnificent building throbbed and ground in the dark. I had wandered around a great part of these cellars often, visiting various semi-retired stagehands and old property and costume mistresses, begging stories as I had in my youth. However, we now were taking new paths through this familiar ground; sometimes crouching behind a half-wall, sometimes darting behind a partition. It was as if we played some weird sort of child's game, hiding and tiptoeing about; but the consequences of being 'tagged' did not bear thinking about.

At last we reached the third cellar, and a room used to store unused set-pieces. Once again, Erik drew close to whisper, "You must follow me very closely. There will be a small passage in the wall; I am afraid you will have to crawl through it; it is far too small to stand up in. Be careful! There will be an opening, a trapdoor in the floor of it. I will drop in, and you must drop down after me; have no fear; I will catch you!" With that, he led me behind a discarded scene from _Roi de Lahore_. I do not know what he did to open the passage, but suddenly there was a slight grinding noise, and a portion of the wall, only a few feet square, slid aside, revealing the passage of which he had spoken. With a last backwards glance, Erik crawled into it, and, with some difficulty, I followed. A moment later, with a similar noise, the door slid shut again behind me. The darkness was complete.

I might have panicked, then, had he not called from ahead, "I am here, Christine. Come to me!" in a Voice that left no room for argument.

It was a struggle, I can tell you; I cannot had to have crawled more than twenty feet or so, but corsets and skirts and petticoats are not for crawling in! And my bustle kept catching at the ceiling in the most aggravating way. I was quite hot and dishevelled by the time I struggled to the opening, a dim square of light in the floor. Carefully, I looked over the edge, into a room whose size I could not estimate; its walls glimmered strangely. The lantern was still turned very low. "Drop down," Erik said again in the Voice; "I will catch you!"

It was nearly impossible to turn about in the confines of that small passage, dressed as I was, but the Voice commanded, and somehow I managed. I dangled my feet out into the opening, and, truth to tell, if he had not insisted, "_Drop!_" I might very well be dangling there still, shaking.

I fell for what seemed an eternity, and then Erik's arms were around me. I was safe. He held me a moment longer than required, it seemed, while I marvelled that such a slender frame could contain such strength, then set me gently on my feet. A third time he took my hand, and led me through another hidden door.

"Welcome," he said simply; "All I have is yours."

To my astonishment, we were in a perfectly normal parlour, with perfectly normal furniture, and a perfectly normal rug on the floor. Whatever I had expected, it was not this: only the lack of windows, and the profusion of musical instruments and sheet music gave any indication that we were deep in the bowels of the Opera, and not in some quiet Parisian flat.

"Come," he said again, and opened another door, a perfectly normal door, not hidden at all. Standing aside, he said, "You may freshen up here, if you wish; join me for lunch when you are ready." He bowed slightly and withdrew, leaving me at the threshold.

Within was a beautifully appointed bedroom. Where the furniture in the parlour had been plain, almost common, in here exquisite blue and gold Louis XVI reigned.

I explored the room in wonder. A second door led into a lovely bathroom, with, as I found, actual _hot_ water coming from the taps, as well as cold. There were brushes and combs laid out, and the drawers and wardrobe were full of everything any woman could desire, from entire outfits, dresses, boots, hats, and all, to the smallest sundries. It gave me a queer feeling; he had obviously gone to a great deal of trouble. I wasn't quite sure if I should be flattered or nervous. I had known a moment's jealousy, seeing the sumptuous and obviously feminine room, and remembering the Ghost's 'lady' and her roses, but I quickly noticed that everything, from brushes and hand mirrors, to the great wardrobe itself, was engraved 'C.D.'; even the pillowcases and thick towels were monogrammed with my initials. I felt as though I were suddenly adrift in a fairytale. It all made me wonder…

I did not take a bath, although I did look longingly at the giant tub, but did take the time for a quick sponge bath before dressing in a lovely soft mauve tea dress, as my own gown would need tender care before it was fit to wear again. It fit perfectly. My hair gave me no problems; although it was, as always, awkward to brush the full length of it myself, I had managed to do so for many years, and there were more than enough pins and ribbons for me to make myself presentable. I found soft slippers in a matching mauve in the bottom of the wardrobe, and thus refreshed, I left to find my host. My Angel.

He must have heard my door, for he came into the parlour at once. "This way, he said courteously, offering his arm; "I have some small refreshment prepared."

He led me into a small but elegant dining room, where, indeed, the table was laid with various cold dishes: chicken I saw, and prawns, and salad. He seated me, and poured me a glass of wine. "Tokay," he said, noting my inquiring look; "From the cellars of the Königsberg."

He seemed somewhat stilted in his formality. I took a sip, then commented, "You have made me a beautiful room, Erik! Wherever did you find such furniture?"

"The Communists left it behind," he said, taking a seat opposite me. "They did not object to the finer things, so long as it was in _their_ possession; there are any number of beautiful things hidden away in forgotten corners." He fell silent, fiddled with his empty wineglass.

"It is an excellent vintage; will you not join me?"

"Thank you, no."

"Will you not eat? I do not want you to go hungry on my account."

"I have dined already. Please, you must be hungry yourself."

"I am," I admitted, and at his gesture helped myself. "Tell me," I said, hoping to once again ease the stiffness between us, "How did you get the wine? Did you travel to Prussia yourself?"

"I did," he said, and to my relief, proceeded to regale me with a few anecdotes from his travels. He was an interesting and witty raconteur, and I found myself reflecting with sadness the shame of it, that his face should condemn him to the depths here, when by all rights he should have been the most sought-after dinner guest in Paris!

At last I finished, and, once again offering me his arm, he led me back into the parlour. "Would you like some more wine," he asked solicitously, "Or would you prefer tea, as do the English?"

"Wine would be fine, thank you, Erik," said I, and he fetched and refilled my glass for me.

"What is that curious instrument, Erik?" I asked when he returned. In the corner, upon a richly coloured cushion, lay a strange stringed instrument, twin to the one the young Indian woman strummed on the cover of my book.

"It's a sitar," he said, gently picking it up; "Would you like to hear it?"

"Yes, please," I said eagerly, and, seating himself upon the cushion, he tuned it, strummed it a few times, and began.

He played a weird, wailing melody; I do not know what chord progressions it may have used, but it was utterly unlike anything I had ever heard before, at once structured and wild, exotic and familiar. It was the sound of dreams, and I almost wept with the beauty of it.

And then he sang, and once gain I was struck by the sheer _range_ of sounds the human voice could produce. It became a lively song, and it was only with difficulty that I was able to refrain from jumping up and dancing about the room in abandon. I did, however, indulge in a little toe-tapping and clapping. When he finished I applauded with enthusiasm.

He rose, and bowed. "Thank you, Christine! I take it you enjoyed it?"

"Yes, indeed! It reminded me of the songs my father used to play in the villages in Brittany, before we came to stay with Professor and Mama—Oh, Erik, Mama Valerius!" My hands flew to my mouth in horror. "I forgot about Mama Valerius! Oh, she'll be so worried, and what will she do without me?" Usually I prepared our breakfasts and suppers, and left a small lunch for her in the icebox; a girl would come in to 'do for her' when I was unavailable, if I was to be performing that night, for example, but without my summons, she would be unaware that she was needed.

"Forgive me; I forgot to mention it. I could have saved you some worry. I sent word to your housekeeper and Mama Valerius both, while you were refreshing yourself. She is well; she has been told you are with your 'Angel' in Heaven, and will return to her soon. The housekeeper has been instructed to stay with her until then. All is well."

I breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you for seeing to her!"

"Not at all," he seemed slightly embarrassed. "As I said, I should have told you immediately. I was… distracted."

"As was I," I admitted; "Still, I should have remembered!"

"She is well, and looked after: that is all that matters! You are free to stay here without concern."

"How long _should_ I stay here," I mused. "Surely he must have left by now!"

"I should not be surprised if he was still lurking about your dressing room, awaiting your return. I think you had better stay the night, at least."

"I do not want to put you out…"

"Nonsense! In the morning we will see if he's still about; if he is you may stay longer. You may stay as long as necessary."

"Thank you, Erik, but--"

"In the meantime," he interrupted, "We can practice. I would like you to learn the role of Marguerite; I think it is time to expand your repertoire."

"As you wish," I said. In truth, his sudden imperiousness made me somewhat nervous; but truth to tell, he had been as commanding, nay, more so, while playing my disembodied tutor in my room. However, it was different, somehow, more unsettling, here in these hidden rooms so deep under the Opera. The mundane familiarity of my shabby room seemed suddenly very far away. I reminded myself, though, that he had never yet given me any reason to doubt his intentions, nor any reason to fear him.

Nevertheless, my life had certainly taken a most _interesting_ turn!

* * *

_A/N: My apologies for the delay in posting this chapter! I hope to have the next one_ _up in the next day or two._  



	11. Do Not Ask That of Me!

**"Through a Mirror, Darkly"**

by Kryss LaBryn

_I own nothing. Please, R&R!_

_

* * *

_

_Chapter 11: Do Not Ask That of Me!_

The next morning I broke my fast upon strawberries, cream, and fresh rolls. Erik once again declined to eat with me, although he did keep me company. Raoul, I learned, was still making a nuisance of himself upstairs, demanding that the managers bring the police in to search for me.

"He's insisting that you have been kidnapped by a mysterious invisible man masquerading as an angel," he chuckled. "If he keeps this up I do believe he will find himself in an institution, old family name or no!" He seemed to find the prospect amusing.

"Horrible places, those!" I shuddered. "I would not wish _that_ fate upon my worst enemy!"

"No?" He cocked his head in curiosity. "There we differ. What fate _would_ you wish upon your worst enemy, then?"

"I do not know; I don't believe I've ever had one!" I considered. "I supposed the closest I could come would be La Carlotta and her clique, and the _worst_ thing I could imagine befalling them…"

"Yes?"

"Public humiliation," I decided.

"Hmmm…" He chuckled again. "Yes, I do believe that _would_ be a fate worse than death for them, wouldn't it? Very astute, my dear!"

I smiled in reply, but dropped my eyes. I had not seen him without the mask since we kissed in my room yesterday, but his voice still gave me butterflies, and every time he laughed my stomach quivered.

"It is a pleasing thought," he continued; "I'll have to keep it in mind!"

"You wouldn't actually _do_ anything, though, would you?" I asked anxiously.

"Oh no—not unless they deserved it!"

I was about to ask him what he would consider to be 'deserving' of it, but before I could he got up. "Are you quite finished, my dear? Excellent; then perhaps you would indulge me in a little practice? Marguerite is a demanding role!"

I followed him back into the parlour, and for the next several hours he had me work on my Marguerite. I already knew most of her arias, and a few duets, but I did not know the rest of the role, not to perform it.

My companion had once again assumed the mantle of the exacting taskmaster, and I was frankly exhausted by the time he finally closed the lid of the piano and said, "That's enough for now."

I sighed my relief, and sank into a nearby chair.

"Ah, I have tired you," he said, not quite apologetic, and turned around on the bench to face me.

"I _am_ tired," I admitted. He had worked me hard. And I had been quite correct: it _was_ very difficult to receive instruction from him now! He would say, do this, and my mind would want to hear him giving me quite different commands… It took all my new-found concentration to seize my willpower in both hands and _focus_. I had succeeded; I was exhausted.

He rose and disappeared for a moment, reappearing at my elbow with a glass of watered wine. I accepted it gratefully. He took a chair near me and continued, "I will continue to work you hard, I am afraid; we have been granted an excellent opportunity to pursue your studies, and I mean to take advantage of whatever time we may have together!"

My heart fluttered at his words, but, alas, he added, "You are ready to assume the mantle of a Prima Donna; I should not be surprised if you were offered a leading role very soon!"

"How long _will_ we have?" I asked. "I cannot stay here forever!"

"You may stay for as long as you wish," he said casually.

Oh, I was tempted! Sorely tempted. But I could not tarry indefinitely, however much I may wish to. "I cannot leave Mama Valerius for very long, even attended as she is. And what about rehearsals?"

"What if you run into Raoul again?"

"I certainly do _not_ want to run into Raoul again, but I cannot miss rehearsals. They will let me go if I do not return!"

"His ship sails on the twenty-ninth; stay until then!"

"But it is only the thirteenth! I cannot put you out so! And that would be _far_ too long for me to be away from Mama Valerius."

"She believes you to be in Heaven with your Angel; she will be happy for you," he reminded me gently. "And, please believe me, I am more than happy to have you as my guest!"

I did not doubt his sincerity, but still, "I cannot miss so many rehearsals. And I cannot miss _any_ performances!"

He bent his head a moment in thought, then said, "I can have him banned from the backstage areas. You will stay here; I will escort you to and from your duties above."

"I do not think they'll ban someone from such a powerful family" I said doubtfully; "His brother is a generous patron of the theatre!"

"Then we shall simply tell them that you have been called away unexpectedly to attend a sick relative," he said abruptly. "No, don't worry about them sacking you; they will not dare! You will keep your place here, never fear."

"Very well," I bowed my head. "I will stay with you for a few more days, at least; we will see if I can attend to my duties at the Opera without bumping into Raoul. After that…"

He sighed. "After that, we will see. Very well." He paused, then rose. "If we are to have such a short time here, though, I mean to make the most of every minute. Rest a while; I will prepare you lunch. We will rehearse further afterwards."

"As you wish," I murmured.

o o o o o

And rehearse we did. For the next several days, almost every waking moment, it seemed, was spent practicing. Not even at the Conservatory had I worked so hard. My progress was exhilarating.

And I was frustrated, near to tears.

Erik still refused to remove his mask. I had not asked it of him, but I had hoped—Oh, how I had hoped!—that, being so close as we were, sharing the same dwelling as we did, that he would, perhaps, grow comfortable enough to leave it off. Even if only to share a meal with me. But even when I woke up, very late at night, to see dim light glowing beneath my door, and peeped out, Erik was masked.

And he avoided my touch.

I thought, at first, that it was just coincidence. Oh, he would offer me his arm, or extend his hand to help me rise, but he would not touch me otherwise, not even the most casual brush such as might be expected between two friends. And when I would casually, discreetly, attempt to touch him myself, to rest my hand against his shoulder, say, as I stood behind him and read the music off the piano's stand, somehow I would always miss. He gave no indication that he was aware of my endeavours, and yet, somehow, he would have dodged me without seeming to. It saddened me.

And it upset me! God, to hear his voice, to have him there, so close to me, almost every waking moment, and to be denied even the simplest touch of his hand! The memory of that kiss, of the taste of his lips upon my own burned within me, threatened to consume me! To feel this, and to have to sing with him..!

After three days of this, I could take it no more. I looked across the room at him, curled up in an armchair on the other side of the small fireplace. He seemed unaware of my perusal of him.

"Erik," I began tentatively, "I was wondering…"

I trailed off, and he looked up from his book. "Yes?"

"I was wondering… why you've been avoiding me."

"I haven't," he seemed puzzled. "I've barely left your side."

"Yes, but you haven't let me touch you. You seem to shun me."

He shifted, uncomfortable. "It's late," he said, closing the book. "You should try to get some rest."

"Please, Erik… I've never felt like this before!"

He looked away, and I feared he would leave. I rose myself, and stood in front of his chair. "Erik--"

"Please, do not ask me to remove my mask! I cannot, not even for you."

"Erik," I said, "I do understand why you keep the mask on around me, I truly do, but why must you deny us both the pleasure of your kisses?"

The question obviously made him uncomfortable. He could not retreat, not without bodily removing me from his path, but he did draw his knees up to his chest like a spider, wrap his long arms around them, and turn away. "Christine, please don't ask this of me," he whispered.

"But I must, Erik," I went on my knees in front of him; "I cannot stop thinking about it; I cannot stop remembering what it was like."

"Neither can I," he murmured, still not meeting my eyes. I reached a tentative hand to him but he flinched, so I settled for resting it on the cushion near him.

"Please, Erik," I said again, "Kiss me?"

He said nothing, only buried his poor head in his arms, so I continued, "Even through the mask? Please? If you must keep it on I understand, but the silk is thin… Or we could put out the lights…"

He gave a strange harsh bark. "It's not that! God, don't you think I _want_ to? But I can't—It would only end in frustration. For both of us." He seemed to swallow a sob, then whispered, "I couldn't live with that. I couldn't see that look on your face and live…"

"What look, Erik?"

He said nothing, but shuddered. Slightly alarmed, I dared to reach a hand to his as I repeated, "Erik, what look? What do you so fear to see?"

"Pity," he spat, and sobbed. "Oh, God, Christine, please, _leave me alone!_"

Truly concerned for him, I did as he asked, and withdrew into my room, closing the door quietly behind me.

But, I admit, I listened. You may think me wicked, but I truly did it out of concern for my dear friend, not out of any morbid curiosity. I was deeply worried about him.

I had kissed him already; I had looked him square in the eyes, unmasked, and kissed him. The very thought of that kiss had me aching instantly, and he had admitted he felt the same. Indeed, he had not needed to say anything, not really; I had guessed easily enough at the time that he was enjoying it too!

Then why did he so fear to repeat such actions? Why did he think I would ever look upon him with pity, with anything but love and admiration?

Why would it end in frustration--?

I was suddenly distracted by the crashing chords of the organ. At first, it all seemed to be nothing but noise, as though he were randomly and violently pounding the keyboards with his fists, but gradually, slowly, it became music; such music as I have never heard, then nor since. It seemed at first one awful, magnificent sob that tore my heart to hear. Gradually, little by little, it expressed every sorrow, every suffering of which the human race is capable. It made me weep to hear it. It held a note of despair that I hope never to hear again. I was torn, weeping, between going to him, comforting him, and leaving him his privacy. I swear, I did not know what to do. The music seemed to hold me spellbound.

Finally, on a long, unsatisfying, unresolved note that hurt my ears as well as my heart, the music ended. All was silent beyond my door.

I dared to go out.

I found him in his room, still sitting in front of his organ, head bowed, unmoving. I approached quietly and respectfully, but not silently. He gave no indication at first that he was aware of me, but as I stood silent myself he began to speak, quietly, almost conversationally, as if to himself.

"You see, Christine," he began, as if our conversation had not been interrupted, "You may not know it, but when I was much younger, I travelled with gypsies for a time. It was not," he gave a sad chuckle, "Entirely voluntary. Eventually I escaped, but my fame had already spread far and wide, even to the Shah in Persia, although I did not know it at the time. Indeed, it was not until some years later that my friend the Daroga—you may have seen him about: he's the Persian who makes such a nuisance of himself lurking about backstage—managed to track me down in Russia. But that's another story…

"But perhaps you heard of me? You would have been quite young at the time; no, you would have been _too_ young… You may not have been born at all, then… Still, perhaps you have heard talk. _The Living Corpse_, they called me, and I sang and played a violin…" He bowed his head slightly, still facing away. "I did not—They would not let me--" He visibly composed himself, then continued, clinically, as if he were discussing an interesting specimen in a jar, "The truly _profitable_ part of Erik's affliction is that it is not confined to a single locality. He was exhibited as 'The Living _Corpse_', not as 'Death's Head Boy', or some such; and the customers would have felt somewhat cheated were they not permitted to satisfy themselves that such a creature was truly built of death. Erik was therefore permitted to wear what modesty and the law required, but no more…" I must have made some noise, given some sign of my horror of his tale, for he paused, and said kindly, "It was a long time ago, and those who displayed Erik so have long since paid for their crimes."

"Erik," I whispered in sympathy, but he raised a forestalling hand, and continued. "Christine, do not listen to the tale of Erik's life. It is too sad for you. _Listen to what he is saying_. Do you understand? Do you see why Erik can't… give in again?"

I thought back on what he had said, considered very carefully, and realized what he had to mean. I struggled to find my own composure, to hide the sound of my sympathy that he might have taken for pity. "When you said that you couldn't…" I swallowed, continued, "You were speaking literally."

He breathed a great sigh of relief. I was correct, then. "I wish--" he said thickly, paused, and began again. "I wish that things were different. I wish that I was young and handsome for you. But… Well. Things are as they are. 'The moving finger writes…' As I of all should know."

"I do not know that quote, Erik. What is it?"

At that, he finally turned on the bench to face me, although he did not rise, nor quite meet my eyes. "'The moving finger writes, and having writ, moves on, nor all your piety nor wit shall lure it back to cancel half a line. Nor all your tears wash out a word of it.' I am tired of tears, Christine; I am tired of despair. I wish only to live like anyone else. I will be a good companion to you, if you will let me; I know dozens, hundreds of tricks to amuse on a rainy Sunday, but I fear—I'm sorry. I can't be more than that." His head bowed again.

"Oh, Erik," I breathed, and went to him, my heart aching. Gently I gathered him in my arms, and he rested his cheek against me as if he were a child. Resting my head on his own, I said, "If that is all that I can have of you, then I must be content. But, Erik… Do you trust me?"

"With my life," he said simply.

"There may be a way…"

He tensed. "Don't torture me with that!" he said sharply, pulling away. "Do you think I have no knowledge of my own body, abhorrent though it may be? Do you think that _you_ have a deeper understanding of male biology?"

"Well, no, of course not; not directly. But I _do_ spend a lot of time at the Opera, and well, I gather that this sort of thing isn't… unusual." He said nothing, but listened, watched me intently. I could not decipher his expression through the mask. "Well, I mean, it seems to happen to _most_ men, at least upon occasion. The girls talk. One… hears things."

"Indeed," he said dryly; "And what sort of things does one hear?"

"Well," I said, blushing furiously, "That there are… other ways. And I have heard that women can be… partners, too, and I don't know what you know of _female_ biology, but I can assure you, _we_ don't have… _those_ at all."

"Hmmm." He looked away, thoughtful. "I must consider this..."

_What is there to consider_, I wanted to ask, but didn't. He continued, gently, "Leave me now, please. I need to… to think."

It was hard to be sure, his eyes were so sunken as to be quite hidden beneath the shadow of the mask, but he seemed distant. Thoughtful. I nodded, and turned to leave.

As I reached for the door, he quietly added, "Christine.."

I turned to look. He had not moved. "Thank you for this."

I nodded, and left.

* * *

_A/N: From The Phantom of The Opera, by Gaston Leroux: "Know that I am built up of death from head to foot and that it is a corpse that loves you and adores you and will never, never leave you..!"_


	12. I Have Considered

**"Through a Mirror, Darkly"**

by Kryss LaBryn

_I own nothing. Please, R&R!_

_

* * *

_

_Chapter 12: I Have Considered_

I withdrew to my room for the rest of the evening, reading some more of "Tales and Legends", which had mysteriously reappeared on my dressing table here, and indulging in a long hot soak in that wonderful bathtub. But although I kept my ears cocked for any sounds outside, I heard nothing. So far as I was aware he remained in his room.

Indeed, there he remained for all the next day. Hunger finally drove me to exceed the bounds of a polite guest, and forced me to guiltily rummage through his icebox in search of sustenance, but although I absolutely dreaded his discovery of me in his kitchen, finishing off the rest of his chicken, there was still no sign of him. I took as little as I could, and very carefully cleaned up after myself, but try though I might to leave the room exactly as I found it, I of course had no way to replace the food I had eaten. I comforted myself with his words, "All I have is yours," and the knowledge that he would not _want_ me to go hungry; would, no doubt, have been as appalled as I at the thought of a guest going without while in my care. However, it was still very hard not to feel something of an intruder.

Lunch I helped myself to, and a small repast in the evening, but still there was no sign of him. I could but trust that the water from the taps was safe to drink, as there was nothing else but various spirits, and a small ceramic jug of cream, and indeed, I suffered no ill effects. Buried in the bowels of the Opera House as we were, I was half afraid that the only water source available would be the somewhat stagnant lake in the lowest cellar, but he must have somehow tapped into the lines supplying the rest of the building, for the water seemed clean and quite fresh.

I would have enjoyed a cup of tea, for there was a slight chill in the air, but I was afraid to try to light his stove by myself. Helping myself to provender was one thing; burning his home down would have been quite another, accidental or no! But still, all was silent.

I wandered about, trying to read, trying to amuse myself. I was growing concerned, for him, certainly, but also for myself, somewhat. I was too aware that I had no idea of how to return to the world above. Intellectually, I knew that he would not abandon me down here, but it was hard to convince my nerves.

I finally, and accidentally, fell asleep on the sofa in the parlour late that evening. I must have been very sleepy, for it was only the slight jostle of him opening my bedroom door that woke me; I had not felt him lift me. I was cradled in Erik's arms. He wore no mask.

He must have felt me stir, for he murmured, "Shhh," as he carefully lowered me to my bed.

"Erik--"

"Shhh…" He bent to remove my shoes.

"I was afraid you weren't going to come out," I said sleepily. "I'm afraid I helped myself to your kitchen."

He blinked, then said simply, "Good."

"I tidied up, of course," I sat up, more alert, "But still, I shouldn't have--"

"Not at all," he said, abruptly; "I would hardly want you to starve. I should have been a better host; I'm afraid I am unused to company."

I must have looked unconvinced, or still sheepish, for he continued, "In any case, if you hadn't eaten it, it probably would have simply gone off. I tend to forget to eat, myself, so if you are hungry by all means help yourself." He placed my shoes neatly beside the bed, and perched on the edge.

"Did you not eat, then?" I was startled. I had assumed that he had come out late, after I was asleep, and at least eaten _something_… No wonder he was so thin!

"I often do not eat for days, when I am working," he said. "Once, during a particularly difficult passage, I ate nothing for a week. I dislike the distraction."

"Oh dear; you must be most put out to have me hanging about! I'll leave first thing in the morning--"

"Not at all, Christine;" he smiled, "_You_ are inspiration, not distraction. You are welcome to stay here for as long as you wish."

I almost did not hear his words; the change the smile made to his face was so astonishing. He was still ugly—so terribly ugly, poor Erik!—but the smile lit his countenance as a candle shining through thinnest alabaster. For a moment—a moment only—I half-believed that he could indeed be an Angel become flesh.

"Are you all right?" he murmured, softly brushing his knuckles against my cheek, "You have the oddest expression!"

I smiled, and pressed his hand to my cheek with my own. "I am all right, Erik!"

"Good," he said again, and, oh, so gently! leaned forward and pressed his lips to my own.

And, oh! The sweetness of that kiss! I cannot describe it. There was none of the terrible need we had expressed up in my dressing room; I desired him, certainly, but in that moment, his lips resting softly upon mine was enough.

After an endless time he withdrew, as gently as he had leant to me. His eyes searched mine, but whatever he read there must have satisfied him, for he simply said, "I have considered."

"I am glad," I whispered, still resting my cheek in his palm.

We were both silent for a long moment, then, pulling his hand away slightly (I kept my grip on it, though!) he added, shifting slightly in embarrassment, "I'm not quite sure what to do next, though…"

My own joyful smile danced about my lips. "I'm not entirely sure, myself, but we made a good start of it, I thought, upstairs…"

"We did indeed," he grinned, but made no move.

"Sing with me?" I asked suddenly.

He smiled, grateful, it seemed. "Of course. What would you like to hear?"

_Your voice,_ I thought, but said, "Marguerite's invocation to the angels at the end of Faust, please."

"Ahhh… An appropriate choice!"

_Holy angels in Heaven blessed, my spirit longs with you to rest!_ "I thought so," I smiled again.

And once again, with the Voice of an Angel, he sang…

How utterly glorious was his voice, that made me tremble with desire to hear it; and how _utterly_ glorious it was to sing that duet with him, knowing that, finally! it would culminate in another duet, an older dance! Frustrated, he had thought I would be? Not nearly as frustrating as it had been to sing like this, to feel the fires of passion sweep through me, to hear them echoed in his own unearthly, angelic voice, and then have to simply… stop. _Nothing_ that would happen next could ever equal _that_ frustration!

The night would _not_ end in frustration for me, of that I was sure; just listening to that voice, hearing it entwine itself about mine, the harmonies blending, our voices merging… That alone held me, trembling, at the edge of some vast precipice… I vowed that, come what may, the night would not end in frustration for _him_, either…

Together, as one, we sang…

I closed my eyes in ecstasy, revelling in his voice caressing, it seemed, every exposed nerve, every inch of skin uncovered by my dress. Softer, he sang, _we_ sang, I following his lead, as we neared the end. He whispered his final notes into my ear, almost touching me, _but not quite! Erik,_ _please_… his breath warm on my neck, my heart thundering so I feared it would split my breast, neither of us quite daring to move.

Then he pulled back slightly, but before I could force my eyes open against the languor encompassing my limbs, I felt the gentlest touch of his fingers in my hair. Softly, reverently it seemed, he carefully removed the pins and ribbons confining my hair. Cautiously, almost as if he feared being scolded, he tenderly stroked a long tendril, brushing it back from my temple, running his fingers through the curls.

Hesitantly, almost unsure, he pressed his lips to my temple for a long moment, and sighed…

I sighed too, and finally persuaded my own fingers to move, running them lightly up his arms to encircle his neck, to kiss the shell of his ear, his jaw, to finally capture his lips with my own again..!

He was unsure; we both were, but his slightest touch, his gentlest caress over the silk of my dress made me shiver and inflamed me with an intensity I had never imagined. _At last…_ I thought, scarcely able to breathe, my eyelids drifting shut in pleasure as he pressed me back into my pillows, _At last..!_

Lost as I was in the sensations sweeping over me, I still had enough presence of mind to fumble for the buttons of his shirt, trapped between us though they were… I wanted to feel his skin under my fingers as he would feel mine against his, but without a word, his own fingers found mine, and stopped them. I gave them a gentle squeeze, _I understand_. I would make no further attempt to disrobe him… _this_ time…

Instead, I guided his fingers to the fastenings of my own gown, and, thank Heaven, he understood. He was clumsy, unskilled, as was I, but, oh! The joys to be found between two people who love each other...!

…And his face didn't matter at all.

* * *

_A/N: Special thanks to Flo-Fett, without whose invaluable input this chapter would still be stuck in limbo..!_


	13. On The Shore of The Lake

_My deepest apologies for taking so long to post this chapter! You'll be pleased to hear that the next one should be up in the middle of the week, barring further technical difficulties.  
_

_Of course, I own nothing! Please, if you read, review! Reviews make me dance and encourage me to type faster…__  
_

_

* * *

_

_Chapter 13: On The Shore of The Lake_

Of what passed between us in those nights, of the joys that we shared, I will say no more. Suffice it to say that every tear I had shed in my short life, every sorrowful sigh, for my mother, dead when I was but a child; for my poor dear Papa; for dear Mama Valerius's ill health and wandering mind, was repaid a hundred-fold in sighs of pleasure, in cries of joy.

I did not want to leave!

How long I was there, with Erik, I could not say; I thought it might have been a week; I thought it might have been only a few days. Time was endless in that endless night that surrounded his home; without windows, without the ordinary everyday sounds of the world waking up or falling asleep outside, it was so hard to judge time. There were clocks, of course, but one had to remember to look at them, and myself, I was somewhat distracted! I quickly lost the ability to judge time by anything but the rhythm of my own body, now hungry, now sleepy. If it wasn't for Erik's determination that I should learn Marguerite, there would have been little structure to my life indeed.

Indeed, I might have well have spent the rest of my life there like that, with him, happily drifting by in a kind of waking dream, had one day a bell not started to ring in the distance.

It was an electric sound, not the _clang_ of a normal bell, not loud, but persistent. Erik seemed somewhat annoyed by it, but not unduly vexed, so I did not worry about it, although I did wonder. His attitude towards the sound seemed remarkably like that of a hostess interrupted by the greengrocer's lad at the door.

Muttering, he left momentarily, and the bell stopped its clamour.

But Erik still seemed slightly on edge for the rest of the day, slightly distracted.

The next morning he was positively irritable. At last, he slammed down his teacup so viciously that I feared it would shatter. "It is too much," he all but shouted. "Do I _ask_ to have visitors hanging off the bell pull at all hours?"

"What is it, Erik," I asked, concerned. "Is there someone here?"

"Just a damned nuisance," he growled, then, seeing my somewhat alarmed expression, added, "It's most likely just a salesman who's lost his way." He got up and disappeared, returning a few moments later with his mask on, and fastening his cloak. "I shan't be gone long;" he touched my cheek briefly in farewell. "Please do your warm-ups and run some scales; we'll start our practice proper when I return."

"Will you be long?" I asked, confused and slightly worried.

"No, I do not think so," he replied. "I expect to be back before you've finished your warm-up, if you do a proper job." And with that, he left.

--ooOOOoo--

His temper had not improved upon his return; if anything, it had worsened. "Will you not tell me what is wrong?" I asked. "Let me help you!"

"It's insulting!" He was pacing up and down. We had tried to rehearse as normal, but with his suddenly short temper I grew worried, and was unable to concentrate, and he grew increasingly frustrated, until he had finally slammed the cover down, so hard I feared he might damage the finish of the piano. "Enough!" he yelled.

"Oh, for God's sake, don't cringe like that, Christine!" he snapped. "I am not angry with _you_."

"What is it, then?" I dared to ask. "Is there something wrong?"

He blew out his cheeks in anger. "It's that damnable Daroga! He thinks—It is too much!"

'Daroga'? –Yes, Erik had mentioned someone by that name, hadn't he? "Isn't he the Persian? What does he want?"

"He wants a lesson in manners! _And_ in the perils of irritating the Opera Ghost!"

"Will you not tell me what is wrong? Let me help you!"

He was infuriated. "He's somehow gotten it into his head that I am holding you by force—as if I would do such a thing!"

"Does he think so little of you?" I asked. "I thought he was your friend?"

"_He_ would call himself so; _I_ would not," he grated. "I may have done things in Persia—still, I did not force myself on his countrywomen, when—I am not a monster! He should know better."

"He should," said I, quietly. "What would he have of you?"

"He wants _proof_," he spat, "_Proof_ that you are not being held here by force. I have told him that you are here of your own free will, that you stay for love of me," his face twisted. "But for _some_ reason he does not think that likely!"

"Then he cannot know you as well as he thinks."

"He does not know me at all."

"Is he still there?"

"Of that I have no doubt. He is a determined man; he will not leave until he is convinced of your safety."

"Then let us convince him!"

--ooOOOoo—

Erik rowed with strong, sure strokes. The little dark lantern, which he had hung from the bow, scarcely illuminated the dark, greasy water for more than a few feet in front of us, but Erik knew the way. It was unnerving, to perch in that little boat in such blackness after the blaze of light and cheer in the small house hidden behind us; I felt at once exposed, and oppressed by the great mass of the huge Opera squatting above us.

At last we came to a little dock, doubtless the one the maintenance workers used when inspecting the footings. Erik made the boat fast, then helped me out. I felt somewhat less exposed, standing on the small ledge next to the wall, but the gloom was as thick, the air as dank and chilly as before. I shivered.

"Is he around?" I could see no one in that blackness.

"Doubtless," he said dryly. "He will want to assure himself of your safety with his own eyes. And he is a _patient_ man."

"Has he seen you before? I mean, without your mask?"

"Yes, a long time ago… I suppose you want me to take it off?"

"If you wouldn't mind…"

He sighed. "Well, wherever he's hidden himself, he's too far away to get a very good look, I suppose. Still…"

"If he wants to be certain that I am here of my own free will," I said softly, "I can think of no more eloquent way to prove it than with a kiss!"

He snorted, but reluctantly removed the mask. I smiled up at him, and gently pulled him down for a brief, chaste kiss. He smiled tenderly back down at me, touched my cheek…

"No!" The strangled cry some distance away had him fumbling to pull the mask back over his head, cursing. I was inclined to curse, myself.

"No, dammit—Let me go! I will _not_ get down—_Christine!"_

Raoul suddenly appeared, several dozen feet away, followed by a rather embarrassed-looking man, apparently Erik's 'Daroga'. I recognized him as the Persian. And as irritated as I was to have Raoul suddenly appear, here, of all places! I was touched by the desperate concern in his voice. He truly believed me to be in danger.

Erik, however, was truly furious. I did not blame him; I had half-felt like wringing the Vicomte's neck on more than one occasion, Heaven knew! But at that moment I honestly feared for Raoul's life.

"Please, Erik," I pleaded in a low voice as they neared, "Do not hurt him! He only seeks to help me."

If Erik heard, he gave no sign. But the tension in his shoulders, his clenched fists, did not ease. He did, however, seem to still be in control. But how long would that last once Raoul started talking..?

"I am sorry, Erik," said the Persian in a heavily-accented voice; "I have done you a terrible disservice!"

"You have indeed, _Daroga!_"

"Mademoiselle," he nodded to me, politely, but Raoul was already reaching to pull me away. "God, _Christine!_ What has this monster done to you--" He glared at Erik with loathing.

"He has done nothing, Raoul!" I cried, pulling out of his grasp. "I told you, _I don't need rescuing!_"

"So you say," he replied passionately; "My own eyes say otherwise! Christine, what do you think you are doing? Do you have any idea how _worried_ Mama Valerius has been?"

"Now is not the time, my friend," murmured the Persian, but it was too late.

"Do you mean you went to her _again?_"

"It took some work, I can tell you!" said Raoul, hotly. "She didn't want to let me in at all! Heaven only knows what you've told her about all this, about _me_, but when she heard the truth--"

"And what is the truth, Monsieur?" Erik sneered. "That you cannot accept that Christine doesn't want you? Or that you cannot accept that she chose _me_ over _you_?"

Raoul was beside himself. "The truth is that you've abused this poor girl's trust, made a mockery of her faith in God, and in yourself, and of her talents--"

This was rapidly getting out of hand. "Raoul, _please_, you don't know what you're saying!" _You're going to get yourself killed if you don't_ shut up

"I _do_ know what I'm saying, Christine, far better than you yourself! This man here," he gestured at the poor Persian, who looked most uncomfortable, "This man has known your dear tutor for _years_. He _knows_ what kind of a man he is—What kind of a villain!"

Oddly enough, this almost seemed to calm Erik down somewhat, or rather, it changed his fury into something magnificent. He drew himself up to his full, considerable height, gathering majesty to himself as I would gather a cloak. "Has he," he said, head tilted; "Has he, indeed! I wonder, then, that you dare to face me so!

"As our _mutual friend_ the Daroga has apparently told you," he continued, glancing at the poor man, who at least had the grace to look abashed, "I am not one to trifle with. However, as Christine seems to hold you in some regard, I give you a choice that I would give no other: Go now and leave us alone, or I _will_ kill you. Choose wisely, Monsieur; I will not make this offer a second time!"

"As if I would leave her alone with you, monster!" Raoul said hotly. "You, who have betrayed her trust, and lied to her--" Without warning, he grabbed the lantern out of the Persian's hand and swung it at Erik.

Time seemed to slow until it almost stood still. I cried out; the Persian yelled and grabbed for his arm. Erik evaded the missile easily. Raoul staggered, off balance, the lantern still swinging around at the end of his flailing arm. It described a perfect arc, growing larger, growing brighter…

I threw up my arm, but so slowly; too slowly! I felt as though I were swimming through molasses. With a bright flash that I am not sure occurred before my eyes or behind them, the lantern exploded against my forehead…

A wave of heat seemed to engulf my head. My eyes were stinging, burning…

And then all was dark and cold and wet.

Confused, half-stunned, I struggled, blind, not knowing where I was. Groggily, I realized that I was in the lake, but my dress, my wet dress and petticoats were dragging me down..!

I struggled, entangled in yards of exquisite, unbreakable silk, unable to breathe, unable to rise…

A hand grabbed my flailing wrist in a death-grip, pulled me up, coughing, spluttering. I would have sobbed with relief if I had been able to catch my breath. Erik! Thank God, Erik.

Swimming with sure, swift strokes, he pulled me to the ledge where the others waited. "Nadir!" he grated. "Grab her."

The Persian and Raoul reached down, and between the three of them they somehow managed to manhandle me out of the water. I lay in a sodden heap on the stone, teeth chattering with cold, utterly unable to move.

"Christine!" cried Raoul, distraught, "God, Christine, I'm so sorry..!" He reached for me, but Erik, without sparing him so much as a glance, grabbed his shoulder and pulled him away with such force that he literally threw him against the wall.

Carefully, gently, he gathered me up and wrapped me in his cloak. It was soaking; he must not have taken the time to remove it before going for his swim, but it was wool, and warm nevertheless. I tried to snuggle close to him, to bury myself in his embrace, but he took my chin in firm fingers. "Let me see, Christine!"

My eyes still stung; blinking rapidly, I tried to rub them, but he seized my wrists. "None of that," he chided. "Hold still. Nadir, the lantern, if you please!"

The Persian retrieved Erik's dark lantern and unshuttered it, bringing it close. Erik gently probed my head. I hissed; the Persian _tsked _in sympathy. "It's deep," murmured Erik, to him or to me I do not know, "But it's a clean cut, at least. _If_ I can get the lamp oil and lake water out of it… It'll need stitches, though."

He carefully gathered me up and climbed to his feet. The Persian, _Nadir?_ reached a steadying hand as Erik stepped into the boat, then moved to hand him the lantern. "Keep it," Erik said shortly as he lowered me to the bottom; "You need it more than I. And get that idiot out of here!" he added, as Raoul sheepishly shuffled into the small circle of light, rubbing his head.

The Persian cast us off, and as we rowed away into the dark I _swear_ I heard him say, in a curious tone, "Do you _always_ set those you try to rescue on fire, Monsieur?"

Erik had to carry me inside; between the shivers racking my body and the heavy sodden fabric I was encased in, it was utterly beyond my ability to stand. With business-like precision he carried me into my little bathroom, started a warm bath, and stripped me out of my wet clothes. I tried to help, but my fingers were numb and clumsy; he brushed aside my attempts with impatience. I felt like weeping when I saw the beautiful grey silk dress lying in a puddle on the floor in a heap, utterly ruined. "Never mind," he said, following my gaze; "We'll have another made. We can send your Vicomte the bill." He carefully lowered me into the tub; then, with strict instructions to warm the water further as I adjusted to it, he left. "And rinse your eyes out!" he called.

I needed no prompting; the stinging from the lamp oil had abated only slightly despite the tears it had prompted. However, after repeated splashes, my discomfort finally eased, although my vision remained somewhat blurry.

I must have dozed off, for the next thing I knew, the water was running out of the tub. "Stand up," commanded Erik, holding up a large towel, and when I did he dried me briskly, then carried me back to my bed. With his help I donned a warm nightgown and climbed under the covers.

I almost wept with gratitude; he had warmed the bed. He handed me a cup of something hot; he must have laced it with something, laudanum, perhaps, for as I drained it I felt the irresistible urge to sleep, stronger even than my poor tired body had already, sweep over me.

With a sigh I snuggled into the downy bed and slept.


	14. Think Of Me Fondly!

_I own nothing. Please, if you read, review! Reviews make my feet dance, my heart sing, and my fingers type faster... _

_

* * *

_

_Chapter 14: Think of Me Fondly!_

How much time passed before I awoke I do not know. My head ached dully; when I put my hand to my forehead I felt a thick soft pad under my probing fingers. Curious, remembering that Erik had said something about a cut, and fearing that half my hair had been singed away by Raoul's clumsy attempt at defending me, I climbed from the bed and padded to my dresser. However, while my comb and brush were undisturbed, the matching mirror was gone. Uneasy, I peeked into the bathroom; sure enough, that little mirror was gone from its stand also. How bad _was_ the cut..?

Erik must have heard me moving about, for he came in as I was attempting to lift the bandage and feel for the damage.

"None of that!" he chided mildly, gently slapping away my wondering hand.

"Erik," I asked fearfully, not sure I truly wanted to know, "How bad--?"

"Not bad," he replied, ushering me back to bed. "The cut was deep, but clean, and I was able to clean it out well. I've stitched it up--" Seeing me blanche, he hastened to reassure me. "I did a neat job; if we keep it clean and avoid infection—which will not be easy, by the way, if you keep poking at it!—well, then there should be hardly any scar at all. Your hair will hide most of it; it's quite high on your forehead. Once it grows back," he added, grinning.

"My hair!" I grabbed for my head in panic.

"You're only a bit singed," he chuckled. "Once we trim off the damaged bits and brush it out, you won't even notice."

"Then why hide the mirrors?" I demanded, "If there's nothing to hide?"

"Because," he said, unperturbed, "While the wound is relatively small, the bandage required to cover it is relatively large. I didn't want you to panic, and go poking around at it. I _cannot_ emphasise enough how important it is to keep it _absolutely_ clean. There was lamp oil in it, and God only knows what else from the lake; if we are not careful you could still have a nasty infection in it, and that _will_ leave a scar!"

He certainly knew what would inspire my cooperation! I nodded my assent. "And in the meantime, I want you confined to bed for the next few days. You've had a good soaking; I do not want to risk a cold damaging your vocal chords!"

"Very well—But Erik!" My hands flew to my mouth in horror. "What about Mama Valerius? Heaven only knows what Raoul told her—Oh, Erik, she'll be worried _sick!_"

"Write to her, if you will," he said gently, "I'll bring you paper. Nadir will see it delivered. But I am _not_ letting you out of my sight until your wound is healed and I am sure that you will not sicken. Idiot boy," he added under his breath.

And with that I had to be content.

--ooOOOoo--

In the end, I _did_ come down with a chill, but under Erik's ministrations I soon recovered. He was most tender and attentive, and absolutely forbade me to speak at all, for any reason whatsoever, until he was sure I was fully recovered. I had a little bell to summon him if needed, and a notebook to convey my wishes, and I, for my part, tried not to take advantage.

Several times each day he'd examine my wound and change the dressing, each time smearing it with some foul-smelling, acrid white paste. "I know it smells," he said commiserating, as I winced at the stinging in my nostrils, "But it truly is for the best. This will kill any infection that tries to set in. And it doesn't smell so bad once it's covered up again, now does it?" he finished, rebandaging my head.

I had to admit that it didn't. "Well, then." He sat back with a satisfied air. "It won't be long now, and I think…" he ran his eyes over my head appraisingly, "Yes, I even think your hair is beginning to recover."

Finally, somewhat over a week or so later, I think, he pronounced me fit and well. "See for yourself," he offered, returning my beautiful little mirror.

I tried not to grab _too_ hastily for it; however, I'm sure he noticed my eagerness, for he chuckled slightly. The first thing I noticed was that, thankfully, he had been quite right about my hair. He had carefully trimmed away the singed bits, and rearranged things a bit; with my curls, one could hardly tell that anything had happened. As for my forehead…

It was not as bad as I had feared. I must admit that. I had truly feared a disfiguring gash, a jagged tear across my forehead. Instead, a thin straight line ran neatly from an inch or so above my right eyebrow up into my hair. It _was_ a very fine line, he _had_ done a good job with it… I sighed. The line of it was very red against my pale skin.

"It will fade, in time," he said gently, guessing the source of my melancholy. "Brush your hair back as often as you can and let the sun shine on it, now, while it is still fresh, and in a few week's time you will hardly notice it."

"What shall I do with it until then?" I asked.

"Nothing!" he answered, surprised. "It certainly doesn't bother _me_!"

"I know," I smiled at him; "But I really _should_ get back to rehearsals! I can't go on stage like this, and I don't really want anyone else to know about it."

He _tsked_ impatiently. "Cover it up with makeup, then! You've enough of it in your dressing room."

I hadn't considered using my stage makeup for any purpose other than the stage, I must admit. It could work, but… "But, Erik, I've heard that it won't stick to scars! Not properly, not to cover them. There was a girl, one of the other chorus girls, who got a horrible gash on her leg--"

He waved a hand in dismissal, and went into the parlour. I followed him. "Surely you must know to use castor oil," he said, pouring a cup of tea.

"Castor oil? No; forevermore, why?" I frowned in confusion.

"I suppose that lot upstairs is too pretty to have to know these things," he said somewhat derisively. "Dab a very thin layer of castor oil over it, then powder it; the makeup will stick to the powder; the powder sticks to the castor oil, and the castor oil will stick to the scar. Nothing could be simpler." He waved me to a chair, handed me the cup, and poured his own.

"Now," he said, once he had taken his own seat, "If you're feeling quite up to it, I'd like to take a little trip this afternoon."

"Trip? Where to?"

"Just over to the other side of the lake, for now. I assume you'll want to be returning to your Mama as soon as possible; however, first I would like you to indulge me in a little visit with the Daroga."

"He doesn't still think you are holding me by force!" I was shocked.

"Oh, no, no…" he brushed aside the idea. "No, we've managed to convince him that your stay is entirely voluntary, at least. No, he simply wishes to see you for himself, that you are well. A courtesy call. He has been inquiring after you."

"Oh. Very well, then! But why does he not visit us here?"

"Because I do not permit it," he said shortly. "He is entirely too nosey for his own good! Or mine," he added under his breath.

"I see," said I, although I must admit that I didn't, not entirely. However, he had his reasons, apparently.

"Very well then!" He paused, then said, "In the meantime, I think we might try a few mild vocal exercises before lunch. Oh, not now—Finish your tea!" He waved me back down. "Nothing very strenuous, not today; I want to ease back into things. We've taken such good care of your voice, all through your illness; it would be an utter crime to ruin it by trying to force things too soon!"

We had a gentle practice, as he had promised, and after lunch I wrapped up warmly and was carefully helped into the little boat. "I'm not made of glass, Erik," I said, amused; "I won't break!"

"I do not wish to risk another dunking," he said, not at all bothered, and took his place at the oars.

Sounds carried over the still water; as we neared the further shore I could make out Raoul's voice, pleading with the Persian. "You don't understand!" he cried. I could all but see him wringing his hands. "She has had such a primitive education; her childhood was _surrounded_ with a circle of legends! She has such a highly strung imagination that she cannot _help_ but believe whatever he may have told her!"

"My dear young man, that is not how it works!" said the Persian kindly. "I myself come from a country where we too are fond of fantastic things; too fond of them not to know them through and through! When one knows the old stories, the old legends, then one is _less_ likely to be fooled by an impostor!"

Apparently Raoul remained unconvinced, for he continued, "Think of it this way: if you wanted to impersonate someone, who would you fool the best? Those that had never met him, or knew him only at a distance; or his bosom companions, those who knew and loved him best?"

Raoul murmured something, too quietly for me to make out, and the Persian replied gently, "She is safe! Do not worry for her. He truly loves her; he will take good care of her. Hush, now—They come!"

Indeed, we were almost at the little dock; we were close enough that I could easily see Raoul standing, head hanging, in the light of their lantern. The Persian, with his dark hair and skin, took me a moment longer to spot.

But as we approached he came forward in a friendly manner, making the little boat fast and offering me his hand. "Mademoiselle Daaé!" he exclaimed heartily, "How good it is to see you again. I trust you are fully recovered from your ordeal?"

"Quite, thank you," I replied, as Erik glared at Raoul in recrimination. "I trust you are also well?"

"Never better," he replied, eyes twinkling in the lantern-light. "Erik--" He offered his hand.

"Daroga," Erik acknowledged, ignoring it.

"Enough of this!" cried Raoul, impatient. "Christine—for Heaven's sake, Christine, are you all right? Has he treated you well?" He took my hand.

"I am quite recovered, as I said," said I, reclaiming my hand. "Erik took very tender care of me; as you can see, my head is quite healed; there will be next to no scar at all!" I pushed back my hair and leant forwards slightly for inspection. I did _not_ mention my singed hair.

"Yes, I suppose he did at that," he said, grudgingly and somewhat bitterly. "Christine, I am so sorry! I never meant to hurt you."

"Yes, well, the road to Hell…" I sighed, rearranging my hair.

"You looked such a fright, with blood all over your face; I was so worried!"

"You didn't need to tell her _that_, Monsieur!" Erik muttered with a brief flash of anger.

I paled. How bad _had_ I looked? _Would_ I have panicked? No wonder Erik had hidden my mirrors!

"As I told Christine," he continued, irritated, "It looked much worse than it was. As you saw, it has healed nicely." _No thanks to you_, he didn't quite add. The unspoken words hung in the air between us.

"Yes, you did a good job of it, Erik!" the Persian said mildly. "You always _did_ have deft hands!"

"Yes, he used such _tiny_ stitches, I was quite jealous!" said I. "If only my own needlework was half so--"

"God, Christine," Raoul took a step back, shocked; "Do you mean he _stitched you up?_"

"Of course he did," I said, confused. "How else was he to close such a gash?"

"He _did_ say that it would need stitches," the Persian put in.

"Yes, but—My God, Christine! The _pain_--!"

Erik's own eyes widened in shock, then narrowed in fury. "Do you _really_ think--" he hissed, incensed, "Did you really _think_ that I would not use aesthetic? That I would just—hold her down and drive a needle into her scalp?" He could barely speak, he was so angry.

"How should _I_ know?" Raoul replied hotly. "How else should I expect you to behave?"

Erik took a half step forward, eyes sparking dangerously. "Do you _wish_ to see what kind of a monster I can be?" he asked furiously; "Then by all means, continue! Do not forget the _choice_ I offered you!"

Raoul stepped forward too, chin out-thrust, but I grabbed Erik's arm even as the Persian grabbed Raoul's. "No, Erik, please; let me talk to him."

"He is insulting both of us," he said scornfully, but I stepped in front of him and pleaded, "He is young and foolish and thinks himself in love—that doesn't mean he deserves to die! Please, Erik, as you love me," he glanced at me then, clearly irritated, but I pressed on over my misstep, "Erik, please, for my sake, let me try to make him understand!"

He obviously didn't think much of the idea, but said only, "I suppose I can always kill him later, if need be. Go, then!" He turned away.

I turned to Raoul, who was arguing with the Persian. "Raoul, a word, please."

"Has he _deigned,_" he sneered bitterly, "Has he _deigned_ to allow you an unchaperoned visit?"

I sighed, and bit back my first response.

"Please, Raoul, come here." I took his hand and led him a little apart from the others. "Raoul…" I sighed. "I have probably been unfair to you; I suppose I have not been as clear as I should have."

"Christine--" he began, but I shushed him, briefly touching my fingers to his mouth.

"Please, Raoul, for both our sakes, hear me out?"

He looked miserable, and somewhat mutinous, but nodded curtly, and leant against the wall, arms crossed.

"Raoul… The woman you love doesn't exist." I spoke as gently as I could. "It's—well, look Raoul… Look, you consider _him_ to be the interloper, the one to suddenly come between us, don't you?" He nodded again but remained silent. "Raoul, it's… it's the other way round. No, let me speak," I held up a forestalling hand, and I believed then that he truly _did_ love me, for he subsided when a lesser man would have argued. "Raoul, _he knows me now_. He knows the person I am _now_. And Raoul, I have known him longer. I know that I knew you _first_, but he has known me _longer._"

I couldn't stand it, the mute plea for understanding in his eyes. I paced away a step or two; returned. "Raoul… we spend a magical summer together. As _children_. A _decade_ ago. Since then, I have seen you _once_, and that was uncomfortable for us both, although I admit for differing reasons. _You don't know who I am now._ You knew Christine, the young girl who tramped about Brittany with her father. You _don't_ know Christine, the singer at the Opera. The… We had a wonderful time. I have many wonderful memories of those two months… But the boy I remember is not the man you are now. And the girl I was is _not_ who I am now. You knew my father--" my throat threatened to close with emotion—how I missed him!—"And Erik never had that chance. But—oh Raoul, don't you see? _Don't you understand?_ The woman you have made of me does not exist. _No one_ like that exists! No one is _that_ good, _that_ pure!"

"You sell yourself short," he said softly. "_And_ our love; yes, I say love, though you will not hear it; Christine, I love you! I always have. I loved you as that boy so many years ago, and I love you still. I love you."

"Oh, Raoul…" Tears rose unbidden to my eyes. If things had been different, if Erik had never come to me… I would not say that, though. I would not torture him with that empty hope. "Raoul," I simply said, "I loved you too. But one summer together as children fondly remembered isn't enough to build a marriage on!"

He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it and thought. And, bless him, I think he finally did understand. He heaved a great sigh, and rubbed his face, but said nothing.

"There will be another, though, Raoul," I said, not quite touching him. "I promise you. You will meet another woman, and she will not be your Little Lotte! But she will be gentle, and sweet, and kind, and you will love her as deeply as you ever did me. I promise you that."

He still said nothing, but smiled slightly, and listened. "She will be someone your family approves of—no bad thing, Raoul! And you will love each other, and have children, and grandchildren will sit on your knee at your family estates and perhaps hear of how you once knew the singer who loved the Opera Ghost!"

He chuckled at that, a little, and said, somewhat wistfully, "I can almost see her, you describe her so well!" He sighed. "I suppose my life need not be dreadful without you, at that. Although, I'll never forget you, you know!"

I smiled at him. "I'll never forget you either, dear Raoul: the handsome young man; the rescuer of my scarf! Remember me fondly, as I will you."

"I don't suppose we might remain friends?"

"It would be better if we did not, I think."

He sighed again, and moved from the wall. "I suppose he doesn't really have anyone else, does he," he asked, _sotto voce_; "If he does not have you, he will never have anyone."

"I suppose not," I replied as softly. "But you must understand, that's not why--"

"No, I understand now. You love him. And he, at least, truly does love you. Mind you," and his eyes glinted in the darkness; "If he ever hurts you, in any way, I _will_ kill him. Even if it does mean my own death."

"Dear Raoul," I said tenderly, "He would never bring me harm. He is only a monster on the outside, you know."

He sighed once more. "If you say it is so, then I must believe you. If nothing else, you have never lied to me. Come," and he led the way back to where the Daroga waited, looking tired, and Erik stood impassive.

"So, boy, will I have to kill you?" he said evenly.

"No; no, I will leave you two in peace. If you please, Monsieur," and he bowed slightly to the Persian, "I do not know the way, and I am not inclined to linger…" He stepped forward, took my hand, and lightly kissed my forehead. "Goodbye, Little Lotte," he said, paused, then gently dropped my hand and turned away.

"This way, Monsieur," said the Daroga, and without a backwards glance they left.

Erik put his arm around me as we watched their small lantern bobbing away into the darkness. "Are you sorry to see him go?"

"No…" I sighed. "And yes. I wish that he could have remained my childhood friend, and not ever have been the eager young suitor."

"Was it not flattering to have a handsome young nobleman pursuing you?" I looked up at him, but he seemed to simply be curious.

I considered. "I suppose it was. I would have been more flattered if I had _wanted_ to be chased by him—but yes, I suppose it was."

He paused, then asked in a low voice, "Do you regret your choice?"

"Erik," I pulled him into my embrace, "You know I don't."

* * *

_A/N: Not the end! More to come, hopefully soon._


	15. Home Again

**"Through a Mirror, Darkly"**

by Kryss LaBryn_  
_

_A/N: I own nothing. Please, if you read, review! Reviews make my feet dance, my heart sing, and my fingers type faster...__  
_

_

* * *

_

_Chapter 15: Home Again_

Once we were inside his home again, he said quietly, "I think it may be time for you to go home."

"Yes, I suppose…" I sighed. "I must see Mama Valerius; she'll be worried _sick!_" I felt so guilty, abandoning her for so long. "It would be past time for me to go home anyways," I sighed again in frustration, "But if she thinks that I'm in the clutches of some madman--"

Erik nodded. "Pack, then," he said simply; "I'll see you out."

"It—This isn't the end, is it, Erik?" I asked, suddenly fearful. "You're not—I _will_ see you again, won't I?"

He laughed, a trifle sadly. "I will never leave you, Christine! But you must attend to your Mama, and I--" He surveyed the parlour, hands on his hips, for all the world like a charwoman deciding where to begin the Spring cleaning, "I have work to do!"

In the end, it took me little enough time to pack; I had not brought anything with me when I arrived, after all! But the dress I had worn in the little passage had still not been attended, so I changed into one of the simpler gowns, packed my book, the exquisite brush set (which I could not bear to leave behind), and a few small toiletries, and told Erik that I was ready.

As usual, he had donned his mask again with his cloak. He said not a word, but helped me back into the little boat. From the little dock he led me to a passageway I did not recognise. It ended, all too soon, at a metal gate, which Erik unlocked. Pressing the large brass key into my hand, he said, "There! That is the key to my realm. You have but to follow the passage back to the lake, and I will know you are there and come to you." He seemed about to say more, but stopped, and made to lead me out, up to where daylight glimmered faintly against the stones ahead.

I could not bear to be parted from him so coldly! "Erik," I said, and he paused, but did not turn.

"Christine."

"Will you not… May I not have a last kiss? To tide me over until I return?"

Did his shoulders slump slightly? It was hard to tell. He turned, impassive, and I could not tell if he was relieved by my request, or pained. "You will return, soon enough," he whispered; "Is that not enough?"

"No," I whispered back. He sighed, and, raising the mask only a little, pressed a trembling kiss to my waiting lips. I embraced him, then; fiercely, quickly, then withdrew, shaking, as he lowered the mask again and took my hand, not meeting my eyes.

Was I glad that he had acceded? To this day I do not know. Oh, how I had wanted that kiss from him! And what it meant to me that he gave it! And how it tore my heart to step away from it..! Parting is such sweet sorrow, indeed. The few moments it took to reach the street and summon me a cab seemed brief, indeed; and yet, as the cab rolled off to my flat, I summoned them back, cherishing them as if they had been years of us together, not seconds.

Oh, how I missed him already!

It was with deeply conflicting emotions that I climbed the narrow stairs to our little flat. It was good to be home; and yet, when I thought of _home_, a part of me thought of my own little room in the house on the lake. My surroundings seemed slightly surreal; nothing had changed; everything had changed. _I_ had changed.

I was so looking forward to being with Mama Valerius again! I could never regret the time I had spent with Erik, but I had to admit that, underneath it all, I had missed her; I had worried about her. It would be good to see her again.

To my surprise, the front door was unlocked. I had always carefully locked it behind me when I left-- but then, our housekeeper was staying in, wasn't she? Softly, in case Mama was resting, I went in.

She was talking to someone; I could hear her chattering away. "Mama Valerius?" I called, and went to her room.

"Ah, and here she is now!" cried Mama Valerius gaily. "Christine, dear! How good it is to see you again! Come; come and sit here by me," and she moved over a little to make room for me on the bed.

"Mademoiselle Daaé," a deep, accented voice saluted me, and to my astonishment, who was seated in the little chair by the door but the Persian!

"Monsieur Daroga!" I said in shock, surprised at how happy I was, how relieved, to see him there. It was as if a little bit of Erik had followed me back…

"Please," said he, rising to take my hand briefly; "Call me Nadir. Daroga was my title, not my family name."

"Oh, my apologies," I said, slightly embarrassed. "I did not know. What rank does 'Daroga' signify?"

He laughed in a warm baritone. "There is no reason you should know," he smiled. "And 'Daroga' is not a title of nobility; it means 'Chief of Police'."

"Nadir has been stopping by almost every day this past while," said Mama Valerius brightly. "He's a _most_ interesting man to talk to! Did you know he knows your Angel?"

"Yes, Mama; I know!" I wondered what he had told Mama... But she did not seem unduly worried. "I'm sorry I was away for so long!" I gave her a heartfelt embrace. "I did not mean to be. You must have been so worried!"

"Oh, that," she waved my concerns away. "No, dear Nadir was _most_ patient in explaining everything to me! What a silly boy that Vicomte of yours is! Imagine, mistaking an angel for a wanted criminal, just because he never saw him! Do you know," she looked at me sharply, "I _thought_ it was just because he was so taken with you, but now I wonder if he is not perhaps a bit simple?" She went back to her endless crocheting. "I think you're well rid of him, my girl. Pretty face or no, _that_ sort means _trouble_. There!" She tied off the end of her yarn and neatly snipped it. "Finished!"

"He's not _my_ Vicomte," I said vaguely, but no one seemed to be listening. "Thank you, Nadir," I smiled. "For visiting," I added, at Mama Valerius's glance.

"Yes, he really has been _most_ kind," she murmured, setting up her hook again. "He knows the most wonderful stories!"

"Oh! That reminds me," he turned to me; "I have a message for you, Mademoiselle! You may not know, but rehearsals were halted while you were away-- I believe they were having some problems with the mechanisms for moving the set pieces. But they will begin again on Monday; you are to attend at your usual time."

"Thank you!" I said, greatly relieved. So I had not missed rehearsals after all! I wondered if Erik had been involved in their problems…

And so I obediently returned to the Opera to attend rehearsals on Monday. I had asked Nadir privately, before he left, if he knew if I was to continue my private instruction as well. "Not at this time," he said gravely; "Erik is busy! But he will let you know when he wants you to return."

Truth to tell, I felt a little discarded as I entered my dressing room at the Opera for that first rehearsal. It felt empty, somehow; I knew he was not nearby. But then my eyes lit upon a rose left upon my dressing table where I would not miss it. It was perfect; deep red, barely opening; dew still trembled upon its petals as I inhaled the delicate scent. "Thank you, Erik!" I murmured. I was much comforted.

--ooOOOoo—

Nadir continued to visit Mama frequently. I occasionally was able to have a brief quiet conversation with him myself, if Mama Valerius dozed off, or as I saw him to the door. I asked him, one time, not sure if I wanted to know the answer, "Is Erik a wanted criminal, then?" I had not forgotten what he had told Raoul!

"No, child, he is not," he answered sadly. "The ruler that wanted him believes him dead."

"He is a criminal, though," and a part of me trembled inside.

He sighed. "Yes—and no! There was no law that condemned him, merely the whim of a powerful man. I do not know if you know anything of his time in my land?"

I shook my head. "He told me once that it was not a happy time for him," I said softly; "That is all that I know!"

"'Not a happy time'… No, it was not a happy time. Poor Erik!" He gathered himself together. "You see, you may not know this, but Erik is a genius! No, do not laugh; I know you know of his voice, of his music; but he is a genius at _everything_! He is an astonishing architect; he built for the Shah in Persia a most astounding palace…"

"Was it very beautiful, then?"

"Beautiful, and deadly!" he replied. "It was as full of tricks and traps as a conjuror's box! The Shah was well pleased. No one in the world had a palace such as he! But he reasoned that if Erik could build _him_ such a treasure, then he could do the same for others." He fell silent.

"What happened?" I asked, when I could stand his silence no longer.

"Hmm? Oh, he ordered Erik's eyes to be put out."

"My God!" My hands flew to my mouth in horror.

"He changed his mind, though…"

"Thank Heaven!"

"—And ordered him killed instead. I helped him to escape." He sighed again. "The Shah was not very happy, as you can imagine, but luckily some friends of mine dressed a rather weathered corpse in some of Erik's clothes, so the Shah believes him dead. I was simply exiled. So you see," he finished, "While Erik was indeed a condemned man, it was not for any crime that he had committed!"

The talks I had with Nadir were inevitably enlightening, although, truth to tell, he did not reveal so very much about Erik's life. "It is not my place to say," he would often say to me gravely, apologetically; "If Erik wishes you to know, then Erik must tell you himself!"

Rehearsals continued as usual, with one change: I was now, astonishingly, La Carlotta's understudy. La Carlotta was furious, of course; she had never had an understudy before and took my new position as a direct insult. However, the new managers were quietly adamant: they would not risk losing the takings of an entire performance or more over the pride of one singer, however popular. "We _know_ you are a professional," said Monsieur Moncharmin, the unflappable eye in the centre of her storm of fury; "However, accidents happen! I am not going to risk having to refund a week's worth of tickets while we train up someone else because _you_ were run over by a carriage!" And that, despite her protests, was that.

I was ecstatic. I hoped, nay, I _knew_ that, sooner or later, I would have my chance in the spotlight. And I knew that when I did, thanks to my Angel, I would triumph!

As soon as I was able to get away I lit a candle and flew to the gate in the Rue Scribe. Carefully locking the gate behind me I fumbled my way down the dim passage, and soon was pacing in an agony of anticipation on the ledge by the little dock.

As promised, it truly wasn't very long before my straining ears caught the splashing of oars in the distance, although, I must admit, my nerves made it seem a long time indeed! Soon I could make out the glimmer of his lantern, and shortly thereafter he reached the little dock.

He made the boat fast and, catching the small lantern up from the bow, he gracefully climbed the few steps to where I waited and stood silent a long moment, looking down at me.

"Christine," he said at last, and how my heart leapt to hear his voice again! "I trust you have been well?"

"I have," I said, suddenly shy; "But, Erik! I have the most wonderful news!"

He listened attentively as I told him all about becoming La Carlotta's understudy. "I had no doubt that your talent would be recognised," he said gravely. "I am glad that it did not take them _too_ long to do so!"

"And you, Erik," said I, belatedly remembering my manners, "Have _you_ been well? Nadir said that you have been busy..?"

"I have," he replied, still solemn; "The Daroga has graciously agreed to act as my agent in a small matter. I have decided that it is time that I move!"

"Move?" I echoed, confused.

"Yes; I am tired of living like a mountebank, in a house with a false bottom! I want to have a normal house, without any hidden doors, like anyone else! And I dare say I presume, but--" and he looked sideways at me, "But I also imagine that you would not want to spend your days hidden away down here, in the dark! I dare say you'd like to be able to open a window, to look out into a garden…"

My heart leapt so high into my throat I could barely speak. "What do you mean, Erik?" I asked him carefully, not wanting to assume…

"Christine…" He paused, then held out a small gold band, glinting in the light of the lantern, and asked simply, "Christine, would you be my wife?"

My throat closed up; I could not speak a word, I was so happy! The light through my tears cast a halo around him, my Angel! My Erik. I could barely nod.

He slid the ring onto my finger. And as soon as he had, I'm afraid I leapt upon the poor man, gathering him into such an enthusiastic hug that I nearly knocked us both into the lake.

"I take it that's a yes?" he murmured into my ear, wholeheartedly returning my embrace.

* * *

_A/N: Not quite the end! One more installment, which will be up on the weekend, hopefully! Thank you all for your reviews and encouragement!_  



	16. Epilogue

**"Through a Mirror, Darkly"**

by Kryss LaBryn_  
_

_A/N: I own nothing. Please, if you read, review! Reviews make my feet dance, my heart sing, and my fingers type faster..._

_

* * *

_

_Epilogue: Mangos (Or The End of the Ghost's Love Story)_

We were married in a lovely little church, very early in the morning, by a priest who truly did not care if the groom wore a mask, so long as he could be assured that I recognised the man beneath, and so long as the donation to his coffers was suitable. Nadir was our only witness. Mama Valerius would have liked to have seen my marriage to my Angel, but, alas, she was not able to travel that day. She was becoming more and more bed-ridden as she aged.

Raoul I never saw again. His ship sailed, as scheduled; and I heard nothing again of him for a long time. Many years later, at some gala affair or other, a pleasant-looking woman of around my own age was pointed out to me as the Comtesse de Chagny, Raoul's wife. She seemed kind; I was happy for him. And occasionally I would remember Raoul, the brave little rescuer of my scarf, and smile.

Mama Valerius would not leave our old flat, but Erik and I moved into a little cottage some distance from town; private, but not isolated. It was small, but cheerful, with large leaded windows that looked out over a beautiful, rambling garden. Erik was quite right: I loved to throw them open to the sounds and smells of summer, to the bees droning lazily amongst my flowers, to the birds chirping merrily in the mornings. I would have missed that, in the cellars…

We kept quiet lives, but I did not feel cut off. I puttered happily in my garden when we were not rehearsing, and I had ample time to shop and visit Mama on my days off. Our neighbours were mostly older couples who kept to themselves; they did not think it strange that we, the opera singer and her 'invalid' husband, did so too. And I did find myself offered the occasional cup of tea, which I gladly accepted.

Was I happy? Yes. Did I mourn my childless state? Not really; only occasionally, in the very darkest nights, or as I smiled at young mothers in the park, did I wonder about what might have been. We had a terrible conversation about it once. I suppose it was fortunate that nothing we ever could have done would have produced a child: Erik was adamant that no other child suffer as he had because of his face. I wish, though, that I had thought of adoption _before_ he died. He lived to be a ripe old age, but he _was_ around thirty years older than me! But we did have many happy years together.

I think I miss not having children more now, as an old woman, though, than I did then… I would have welcomed grandchildren at my knee, whatever they looked like. But more often I think that Erik was right, and this world was not yet ready to embrace them for the beauty they _would_ have possessed, rather than shun them for what beauty they didn't. It is a cruel, shallow world, in so many ways.

But still, _we_ found happiness within it, so it can't be _all_ that bad.

And it has mangoes…

I still remember my first taste. Erik had disappeared on another 'shopping trip'. I was sitting in my favourite chair by the open window, reading 'Tales' again, enjoying the scented breeze, when he came in, quietly pleased with himself. "I have something for you," he said, kneeling at the small side table and moving aside my tea things.

"What is it?" I asked, curious. He had a small cutting board, a paring knife, and a funny-looking red and green fruit. He quickly and expertly peeled it, then sliced off a piece of the orange flesh.

"It's a mango," he said; "Open up."

I opened, and he popped the small bit of fruit into my mouth. He smiled at me, and I closed my eyes to better savour the taste.

It was juicy. It was sweet.

_Finis_

_

* * *

A/N: Thank you, Dear Reader, for reading this!_

_I would like to say that I much prefer to come up with a title sometime after I have well and truly begun the story, rather than just at the first chapter. I find it hard to come up with a title that truly fits, otherwise. But of course, as I wanted to post the first chapter as soon as I had written it, I could not do so. Were I to find a title now, I would call this phic "Pabhavati's Lesson". However, it will remain "Through A Mirror, Darkly" to avoid confusion._

_To those who have requested that I continue this story for longer: Thank You for the compliment! I am deeply touched that you find my little phic so engrossing. However, here our dear Erik and Christine and I must, alas, part company for a while. But you never know: they may visit me again, and whisper something in my ear late one night. If they do, please rest assured that I will share it with you._

_An especial Thank You to all those who send me reviews! To those of you who have followed along with this story update by update, giving feedback with each chapter, sharing your enthusiasm and critiques for my story: I have awaited your comments after each posting with baited breath: will they approve? Will they still be here for the next chapter? Will they approve of that one? Seeing your emails in my inbox truly made my day, each and every time. And to those of you only now coming across my story: please, if I have moved you in any way at all, send me a review and say so! It is good to know that it is still read, still appreciated, by others who share my deep love for these characters._

_And I must once again send an especial Thank You to Flo Fett, without whose invaluable input and support we might never have gotten Chapter 12! I might never have found the courage to post it without her encouragement; and Chapters 13 and 14, and Raoul, would have been the poorer without her._

_Thank you! I love you all._

_And I leave you with a last parting gift, or Easter egg if you will, for those of you who have read this final note: Two segments I could not seem to fit into the story anywhere else._

_The first:_

And what became of the Opera Ghost, now that Erik had left? Did they miss Monsieur Le Fantóme? Why, not at all. _He_ never left!

Every theatre needs its ghost, you see. And Erik had given the Palais Garnier the most magnificent ghost! And to this very day, when a powder puff goes missing, or a door gets stuck, or a light won't work, the denizens of the Opera will nod knowingly and say, "It's the Ghost!" And to this very day you will find chorus girls who will swear they saw a skeletal figure in dress clothes stalking the dark corridors…

Erik is, alas, long gone. He lived to a great age, but he was not a young man when I met him, and now _I_ am an old woman myself. But the Phantom is ageless; the Opera Ghost will stalk the halls of the Paris Opera House for ever. And sometimes, sitting in my box in the silence after a performance, I could almost swear I hear an echo of his whisper…

_A/N: And the second:_

As the Prima Donna I eventually became I naturally had a certain number of social events at which I was obliged to appear. Erik, of course, was unable to escort me to most of them; I told inquirers that my husband was away on business again. But fairly regularly the Opera throws its doors open to all and sundry and throws a massive masked ball. And to the day he died, he never once failed to escort me to those. Oh, how we danced! And no one ever remarked upon the coincidence that he was always in town for the masquerades, or that we always left before the midnight unmasking.

_A/N: And a bonus: This is the original start to Chapter 13! Frankly, I rather suspect that a bit of V and Evey drifted over from my other fics to visit; it doesn't seem to quite be fully Erik and Christine, so I redid it. Thank you again, and goodnight!_

I drifted awake some indeterminate time later, the memory of his wonderful, calloused, hands, his lips, still burning my flesh. Light filtered through the still-open door from the parlour. Erik lay beside me, asleep.

Carefully, so as not to wake him, I rolled onto my side and studied him. With his face relaxed in sleep, head pillowed on his wrist, I could see something of the child he must have once been, something innocent, something peaceful. Unable to resist, I stroked a finger down the side of his face.

As lightly as I did so, he still felt it and awoke. "Hello," I whispered, smiling.

"Hello," he smiled back. He captured my hand and pressed a gentle kiss to my palm.

"Frustrated?" I asked, playfully, knowing full well that he had not been.

"No." He added, slyly, "You?"

"Mmm… No." I giggled.

He laughed too, a lovely warm sound. "I suppose you'll be wanting some breakfast, then…"

"Oh, I'm not really hungry, yet. You?"

"Oh," he said, reaching for me again, "I can go for _days_ without eating..!"

_Truly, The End!_


	17. Chapter 15 Redux: Home Again (expanded)

Chapter 15: Home Again

A/N:_ I have been promising this for what, almost a decade now? Well, here you (finally!) go. More details on the behind-the-scenes things at the end; for now I will simply say that this is the long-promised expansion of the end of "Through A Mirror, Darkly"._

_You'll recognize this first bit. It's virtually the same as the original Chapter 15 (from here on out my chapter titles won't match up with 's, I'm afraid); I may have tweaked a word here or there, but no more than that. The new bit starts right after the second -ooOOOoo- (I hadn't figured out how to do these lines across the page yet when I first posted this, and I've kept the ooOOoo's for consistency's sake). After that, it's pretty much all new, except for the proposal scene, which was also part of this original chapter._

_Now, this isn't quite 100% finished. But it's pretty close, and I've gotten tired of promising I'd finish it and then not getting anything further done on it (as I say, deets at the end of chapter XX). So I decided to share what I have, as is. As I say, it's pretty close to finished; there are just a few notes to myself here and there [in square brackets like this]. I use the square brackets as they stand out when I'm scanning through so I don't miss them. Honestly, I could probably remove pretty much all of them and I think it would stand on its own; there's just one placeholder for a scene I haven't yet written. I was going to; I had it all plotted out and most of the dialogue in my head; but I had a very small baby at the time and even when I had a minute to spare, I was usually so exhausted that I'd just go and fall over for a bit. But it didn't get done, and after so long I just decided to post it anyways. There's only a few, and I thought you might find it interesting to see them, or at least to see what was holding me up for so long._

_And I hope you enjoy it! Please let me know what you think! I won't say "I hope the wait has been worth it," because the wait has been too ridiculously long for that, but I _will_ say, "I hope you enjoy revisiting these characters, and the expansion of-" -well, you'll see._

_These new chapters fit, more or less, between the original Chapters 15 and 16._

* * *

Once we were inside his home again, he said quietly, "I think it may be time for you to go home."

"Yes, I suppose…" I sighed. "I must see Mama Valerius; she'll be worried _sick!_" I felt so guilty, abandoning her for so long. "It would be past time for me to go home anyways," I sighed again in frustration, "But if she thinks that I'm in the clutches of some madman-"

Erik nodded. "Pack, then," he said simply; "I'll see you out."

"It—This isn't the end, is it, Erik?" I asked, suddenly fearful. "You're not—I _will_ see you again, won't I?"

He laughed, a trifle sadly. "I will never leave you, Christine! But you must attend to your Mama, and I-" He surveyed the parlour, hands on his hips, for all the world like a charwoman deciding where to begin the Spring cleaning, "I have work to do!"

In the end, it took me little enough time to pack; I had not brought anything with me when I arrived, after all! But the dress I had worn in the little passage had still not been attended, so I changed into one of the simpler gowns, packed my book, the exquisite brush set (which I could not bear to leave behind), and a few small toiletries, and told Erik that I was ready.

As usual, he had donned his mask again with his cloak. He said not a word, but helped me back into the little boat. From the little dock he led me to a passageway I did not recognise. It ended, all too soon, at a metal gate, which Erik unlocked. Pressing the large brass key into my hand, he said, "There! That is the key to my realm. You have but to follow the passage back to the lake, and I will know you are there and come to you." He seemed about to say more, but stopped, and made to lead me out, up to where daylight glimmered faintly against the stones ahead.

I could not bear to be parted from him so coldly! "Erik," I said, and he paused, but did not turn.

"Christine."

"Will you not… May I not have a last kiss? To tide me over until I return?"

Did his shoulders slump slightly? It was hard to tell. He turned, impassive, and I could not tell if he was relieved by my request, or pained. "You will return, soon enough," he whispered; "Is that not enough?"

"No," I whispered back. He sighed, and, raising the mask only a little, pressed a trembling kiss to my waiting lips. I embraced him, then; fiercely, quickly, then withdrew, shaking, as he lowered the mask again and took my hand, not meeting my eyes.

Was I glad that he had acceded? To this day I do not know. Oh, how I had wanted that kiss from him! And what it meant to me that he gave it! And how it tore my heart to step away from it..! Parting is such sweet sorrow, indeed. The few moments it took to reach the street and summon me a cab seemed brief, indeed; and yet, as the cab rolled off to my flat, I summoned them back, cherishing them as if they had been years of us together, not seconds.

Oh, how I missed him already!

It was with deeply conflicting emotions that I climbed the narrow stairs to our little flat. It was good to be home; and yet, when I thought of _home_, a part of me thought of my own little room in the house on the lake. My surroundings seemed slightly surreal. Nothing had changed; everything had changed. _I_ had changed.

I was so looking forward to being with Mama Valerius again! I could never regret the time I had spent with Erik, but I had to admit that, underneath it all, I had missed her; I had worried about her. It would be good to see her again.

To my surprise, the front door was unlocked. I had always carefully locked it behind me when I left- but then, our housekeeper was staying in, wasn't she? Softly, in case Mama was resting, I went in.

She was talking to someone; I could hear her chattering away. "Mama Valerius?" I called, and went to her room.

"Ah, and here she is now!" cried Mama Valerius gaily. "Christine, dear! How good it is to see you again! Come; come and sit here by me," and she moved over a little to make room for me on the bed.

"Mademoiselle Daaé," a deep, accented voice saluted me, and to my astonishment, who was seated in the little chair by the door but the Persian!

"Monsieur Daroga!" I said in shock, surprised at how happy I was, how relieved, to see him there. It was as if a little bit of Erik had followed me back…

"Please," said he, rising to take my hand briefly; "Call me Nadir. Daroga was my title, not my family name."

"Oh, my apologies," I said, slightly embarrassed. "I did not know. What rank does 'Daroga' signify?"

He laughed in a warm baritone. "There is no reason you should know," he smiled. "And 'Daroga' is not a title of nobility; it means 'Chief of Police'."

"Nadir has been stopping by almost every day this past while," said Mama Valerius brightly. "He's a _most_ interesting man to talk to! Did you know he knows your Angel?"

"Yes, Mama; I know!" I wondered what he had told Mama... But she did not seem unduly worried. "I'm sorry I was away for so long!" I gave her a heartfelt embrace. "I did not mean to be. You must have been so worried!"

"Oh, that," she waved my concerns away. "No, dear Nadir was _most_ patient in explaining everything to me! What a silly boy that Vicomte of yours is! Imagine, mistaking an angel for a wanted criminal, just because he never saw him! Do you know," she looked at me sharply, "I _thought_ it was just because he was so taken with you, but now I wonder if he is not perhaps a bit simple?" She went back to her endless crocheting. "I think you're well rid of him, my girl. Pretty face or no, _that_ sort means _trouble_. There!" She tied off the end of her yarn and neatly snipped it. "Finished!"

"He's not _my_ Vicomte," I said vaguely, but no one seemed to be listening. "Thank you, Nadir," I smiled. "For visiting," I added, at Mama Valerius's glance.

"Yes, he really has been _most_ kind," she murmured, setting up her hook again. "He knows the most wonderful stories!"

"Oh! That reminds me," he turned to me; "I have a message for you, Mademoiselle! You may not know, but rehearsals were halted while you were away- I believe they were having some difficulties with the mechanisms for moving the set pieces. But they will begin again on Monday; you are to attend at your usual time."

"Thank you!" I said, greatly relieved. So I had not missed rehearsals after all! I wondered if Erik had been involved in their problems…

And so I obediently returned to the Opera to attend rehearsals on Monday. I had asked Nadir privately, before he left, if he knew if I was to continue my private instruction as well. "Not at this time," he said gravely; "Erik is busy! But he will let you know when he wants you to return."

Truth to tell, I felt a little discarded as I entered my dressing room at the Opera for that first rehearsal. It felt empty, somehow; I knew he was not nearby. But then my eyes lit upon a rose left upon my dressing table where I would not miss it. It was perfect; deep red, barely opening; dew still trembled upon its petals as I inhaled the delicate scent. "Thank you, Erik!" I murmured. I was much comforted.

-ooOOOoo-

Nadir continued to visit Mama frequently. I occasionally was able to have a brief quiet conversation with him myself, if Mama Valerius dozed off, or as I saw him to the door. I asked him, one time, not sure if I wanted to know the answer, "Is Erik a wanted criminal, then?" I had not forgotten what he had told Raoul!

"No, child, he is not," he answered sadly. "The ruler that wanted him believes him dead."

"He is a criminal, though," and a part of me trembled inside.

He sighed. "Yes—and no! There was no law that condemned him, merely the whim of a powerful man. I do not know if you know anything of his time in my land?"

I shook my head. "He told me once that it was not a happy time for him," I said softly; "That is all that I know!"

"'Not a happy time'… No, it was not a happy time. Poor Erik!" He gathered himself together. "You see, you may not know this, but Erik is a genius! No, do not laugh; I know you know of his voice, of his music; but he is a genius at _everything_! He is an astonishing architect; he built for the Shah in Persia a most astounding palace…"

"Was it very beautiful, then?"

"Beautiful, and deadly!" he replied. "It was as full of tricks and traps as a conjuror's box! The Shah was well pleased. No one in the world had a palace such as he! But he reasoned that if Erik could build _him_ such a treasure, then he could do the same for others." He fell silent.

"What happened?" I asked, when I could stand his silence no longer.

"Hmm? Oh, he ordered Erik's eyes to be put out."

"My God!" My hands flew to my mouth in horror.

"He changed his mind, though…"

"Thank Heaven!"

"—And ordered him killed instead. I helped him to escape." He sighed again. "The Shah was not very happy, as you can imagine, but luckily some friends of mine dressed a rather weathered corpse in some of Erik's clothes, so the Shah believes him dead. I was simply exiled. So you see," he finished, "While Erik was indeed a condemned man, it was not for any crime that he had committed!"

The talks I had with Nadir were inevitably enlightening, although, truth to tell, he did not reveal so very much about Erik's life. "It is not my place to say," he would often say to me gravely, apologetically; "If Erik wishes you to know, then Erik must tell you himself!"

-ooOOOoo-

Rehearsals continued as usual. I was terrified lest someone mention my mysterious absence; I was still afraid that I would be considered unreliable and sacked, whatever Erik might say. But it would appear that no one had noticed; the stage had been, after all, 'dark' for most of that fortnight. Nonetheless, I felt distinctly queasy when, at the end of one rehearsal, the chorus-master said, "That's all, my fine people; you may go. Daaé: a word, if you please!"

The two new managers, Andre Moncharmin and Firmin Richard, had come in halfway through the rehearsal; they were sitting in the third row, looking bored. One of La Carlotta's admiring clique threw me a sneer. I was apparently beneath the notice of the lady herself; she almost knocked me over as she pushed past, despite the room I left her.

The chorus-master, M Gabriel, waited until the rest of the cast had left, and the four of us were quite alone. Then, somewhat impatiently, he beckoned me down front. "In the center, if you please, Daaé. Very good. Messieurs, she's all yours." And with that, he withdrew a little to the side, clearly leaving the managers in charge.

I trembled; I was sure I was about to receive my notice. But they ignored my wringing hands, which I could not seem to still, and merely said, "Mademoiselle Daaé, we have been told you have a good voice. You will please sing the Jewel Song from _Faust_."

I glanced at M Gabriel, confused; he nodded. "Go on," he prompted, his voice carefully neutral.

What was going on? Were they looking for some excuse, some hint that I was not up to the standards of the National Academy of Music? Well, if they were hoping to find me unworthy they would be sorely disappointed. I took several deep breaths, gathered myself, and, as Erik had taught me, sang.

As the last note died there was only silence. The managers glanced at one another, their faces unreadable.

Finally Richard spoke. "Do you know the opening aria from the _Profeta_?" At my nod, he waved his hand. "Sing it, then."

I did. And several other notable arias; and after each, they would exchange a long look. Finally Richard murmured, "Can she act?"

"It's opera," replied Moncharmin, waving a hand in dismissal. "Who cares?"

They each gave me another long, studying look, then held a whispered discourse while I tried not to fidget. I could make out very little of what was said; I thought I heard _she won't like it_, and _it's not her decision_, but that was all.

At last, they rose, faces still indecipherable, and beckoned me down. "Mademoiselle Daaé," said Richard, "Follow us, please."

They led the long way from the auditorium to their office in silence. I tried to hide my puzzlement. _Was_ I to be let go? I knew I had sung well; they could find no fault with my voice, of that I was certain. Perhaps they meant to allow me a larger role, Siebel, perhaps? Really, I thought, I _had_ sung well; if they were of a mind to sack me for my disappearance surely they would have already done so!

Still, my burgeoning confidence deserted me as we entered their office. A file was waiting on their desk; my contract was on top. They _were_ going to fire me…

"You understand," Richard was saying, "That this is somewhat… unusual. But, well, accidents will happen," another long look between them, "And we can no longer risk having to rely on a single person."

They looked at me expectantly. "Of course not," said I.

"Can you imagine," added Moncharmin, "If we had to refund an entire performance—or more—simply because our leading lady was indisposed? It's unthinkable!"

"Certainly!" I agreed, still not entirely sure what they were talking about.

"Which is why you will now be Carlotta's understudy."

_What?_ "You're… not going to… let me go?" I asked stupidly.

"They looked at each other and laughed. "Heavens, no!" Richard chuckled. "Lose a voice like yours? Don't be silly. Now, if you'll just sign here… Thank you, and here…"

In a daze I signed where he pointed. My wage would go up, and of course I would have to have fittings with La Carlotta's costumer, for duplicate costumes for all her roles would have to be made in my size. I would need to learn all her blocking too; I would have to be prepared to go on in her place at a moment's notice.

_I was the understudy to the Prima Donna!_

Of course, that Prima Donna was La Carlotta, who had never permitted an understudy before…

Richard opened the door a crack. "Ah, good; you're here. If you please?" He opened the door wide, and, much to my dismay, in swept La Carlotta herself. "Thank you, Daaé; that will be all."

She held a regal pose; her gaze swept the room without touching me in the slightest. "_Sí_, _Signors_?" Her attitude was that of a queen granting an audience. I could not help but admire her aplomb as I squeezed past her. Richard did not quite latch the door behind her. I could not help myself; I crept as close as I dared. I could see only a thin slice of the room, but it was enough.

Moncharmin seemed uneager to speak. Richard joined him behind the desk and gestured for her to sit. "La Carlotta," he began respectfully, "You have been our Prima Donna for quite some time now…"

"And what a time!" Moncharmin jumped in, as Richard ran out of steam. "All Paris, all the world sings the praises of our foremost diva! What a voice, they say! What talent!"

"—What a consummate professional!"

La Carlotta preened. "You are too kind, _Signors_," she murmured insincerely.

"And we know," continued Moncharmin, "That such a worthy lady would never let anything get in the way of the performance. The show must go on, come what may!"

"Which is why," Richard finished, somewhat dryly, as her eyes narrowed in suspicion, "We are assigning you an understudy."

I expected fire; the managers seemed braced for the eruption. Instead, she simply said, rather icily, "_No_."

"_No?_ You can't say no..!"

"I do! _No_. I have never had an understudy, and I never will. I say no." Haughtily, she waited.

"Carlotta," Moncharmin began weakly, but Richard interrupted him. "La Carlotta. You have been the shining light of the jewel that is this theatre for a very long time; we are not replacing you. Who could ever replace La Carlotta? You are inimitable."

_No lie there_, I thought, rather cynically.

"However, you must understand that, while we hope that such a thing never comes to pass, there is the barest possibility that, through no fault of your own, I am sure!- something may occur which would prevent you from gracing our stage with your presence."

"_Nothing_" she spat, her cheeks flushing, "_Nothing_ could prevent me from taking the stage!" Her legendary temper was rising.

"Oh, we know that-" Moncharmin began, but Richard interrupted again, "And what would become of us if a carriage were to knock you down in the street? Do not doubt that you would be missed-"

"_Sorely_ missed!"

"But we simply cannot risk having to refund an entire week's worth of tickets, or more, simply because you have a broken leg!"

"—Heaven forbid, of course!"

"Do you really think a broken leg would stop _me_?" she said haughtily. "_Me?_ La Carlotta, the 'shining light' in your jewel?"

"Doubtless it would depend on the role," Richard said dryly. "But even you could not sing if you were dead! No, you _will_ have an understudy, and that is final!"

"You cannot force this upon me! I will not stand for it! I am _La Carlotta_, and without _me_-"

"Without you we will use your understudy. Do not threaten _me_, Madame! You _will_ accept an understudy, and you _will_ do all that you can to ensure she knows your role as well as you. That is final!"

Her head jerked back; if he had slapped her she could not have been more shocked. But, to my surprise, she quieted, then laughed, although rage still simmered under her voice. "As you wish!" she said. "Have your stupid understudy, if you must! She will never have the chance to sing, and even if she did," and she rose, cloaking herself in her pride, "No one will stay to listen! Good day, _Signors_," and she swept from the room, chin held high.

I had jumped back as she rose, but there was nowhere in the hallway to hide. However, she simply hissed, "Little toad!" as she passed me, and was gone.

As I left, I could just hear Moncharmin mutter, "That could have gone better."

"It could have gone worse," replied Richard, apparently unperturbed.

-ooOOOoo-

As soon as I was able to get away I lit a candle and flew to the gate in the Rue Scribe. Carefully locking the gate behind me I fumbled my way down the dim passage, and soon was pacing in an agony of anticipation on the ledge by the little dock.

As promised, it truly wasn't very long before my straining ears caught the splashing of oars in the distance, although, I must admit, my nerves made it seem a long time indeed! Soon I could make out the glimmer of his lantern, and shortly thereafter he reached the little dock.

He made the boat fast and, catching the lantern up from the bow, he gracefully climbed the few steps to where I waited and stood silent a long moment, looking down at me.

"Christine," he said at last, and how my heart leapt to hear his voice again! "I trust you have been well?"

"I have," I said, suddenly shy; "But, Erik! I have the most wonderful news!"

He listened attentively as I told him all about becoming La Carlotta's understudy. "I had no doubt that your talent would be recognised," he said gravely. "I am glad that it did not take them _too_ long to do so!"

"And you, Erik," said I, belatedly remembering my manners, "Have _you_ been well? Nadir said that you have been busy..?"

"I have," he replied, still solemn; "The Daroga has graciously agreed to act as my agent in a small matter. I have decided that it is time that I move!"

"Move?" I echoed, confused.

"Yes; I am tired of living like a mountebank, in a house with a false bottom! I want to have a normal house, without any hidden doors, like anyone else! And I dare say I presume, but-" and he looked sideways at me, "But I also imagine that you would not want to spend your days hidden away down here, in the dark! I dare say you'd like to be able to open a window, to look out into a garden…"

My heart leapt so high into my throat I could barely speak. "What do you mean, Erik?" I asked him carefully, not wanting to assume…

"Christine…" He paused, then held out a small gold band, glinting in the light of the lantern, and asked simply, "Christine, would you be my wife?"

My throat closed up; I could not speak a word, I was so happy! The light through my tears cast a halo around him, my Angel! My Erik. I could barely nod.

He slid the ring onto my finger. And as soon as he had, I'm afraid I leapt upon the poor man, gathering him into such an enthusiastic hug that I nearly knocked us both into the lake.

"I take it that's a yes?" he murmured into my ear, wholeheartedly returning my embrace.


	18. Chapter 16 Redux: Untitled

Chapter 16:

Nadir was apparently trying to locate "an appropriate church" for our wedding; it was unstated, but understood, that it was less the building than the priest he was interested in. He indicated that it might take some time. In the meantime, with the additional burden of learning two roles, that of La Carlotta's as well as my usual, more humble roles, for each opera, Erik once again assumed the mantle of tutor. Thankfully, he usually kept his customary place behind the mirror for the lessons themselves; even in those early hours of the morning we were often interrupted by the costumer, who was not well-pleased at all at having to duplicate an entire season's worth of La Carlotta's wardrobe at such short notice. "At least you don't take much fabric to dress," she grumbled at one such fitting; "Were you Carlotta's size I'd be stitching forever! Of course," she added, "If you were Carlotta's size I wouldn't have to be doing this at all."

I was also relieved, if not glad, to be spared the temptation of watching him sing. Still, it was probably for the best that I had no idea how to work the catch..!

La Carlotta herself ignored me if possible. If she couldn't, if she _had_ to interact with me for some reason, well… she seemed to have decided that _understudy_ meant _inferior_, in her books at least, and would treat me as she might the lowest menial. For myself, I found that if I accepted her views on my position, bobbing and _yes, Madame-_ing my way along, then she very quickly ran out of steam. I did not like it, of course, but I also dreaded her 'forgetting' to pass some crucial bit of information along, some change to the schedule of which I might be unaware, for example. She was angry with the managers, of course, but while she _disliked_ me, so far as I could tell she was not very _angry_ with me. I didn't want that to change.

Nonetheless, if she herself ignored me, her admirers amongst the cast had no such hesitations about mocking or belittling me at every chance, loudly wondering to each other just what acts I might have had to perform, and with whom, to have won such a coveted place. In turn I ignored them, as best as I was able, although my teeth were gritted as often as not. I could not have gone to the managers, nor the director; I could imagine their reaction, and everyone else's, should I run tattling off that I was being picked on. "Picked on? _Picked_ on?" they would say; "My dear, you don't know what being picked on is! Have you ever read the reviews of Fonta's Hamlet, when he was young? Picked on, indeed!"

To Erik I most particularly said nothing about how very upset they sometimes made me. Oh, he knew that I was teased sometimes, and that it bothered me a bit; it was impossible to hide at least that much of it. But I dreaded his reaction if he knew just how much they hurt me sometimes. I was afraid he might somehow take revenge upon them, as I would have for him, were our places reversed, and in doing so, open himself to the risk of discovery. For I dreaded for his safety! I was engaged to be married to the man I loved more than anything, we were to move into our own home, and I was now the understudy to the Prima Donna herself! Dread stalked me; I was unused to such joy. I kept waiting for it all to come crashing apart.

And yet, somehow, impossibly… it didn't.

I spent very little time in the house on the lake; what with learning two roles for each performance, and one of those always the lead, I had very little free time. And what few minutes I could steal were spent at home with Mama Valerius, as we worked on that most important garment any young woman sews: my wedding dress! No date had been set yet, as Nadir had yet to make the arrangements, but I was in absolute dread that he would come to us one day soon, and I would not be ready! Besides, I couldn't keep from it if I had wanted. Nadir had slipped me a rather heavy purse, saying it was from Erik, for whatever "I might need" for the wedding.

I opened it to find a small fortune; more than what I had earned in a year as a chorus girl! It would indeed purchase as much of the finest silks and fripperies as any bride could ever desire. Dear Mama Valerius, who was increasingly bedridden, was unable to come shopping with my maid and I, but we discussed all the purchases beforehand, of course, and had endless fun sorting through all the parcels when we returned. And, every evening, as late as we could bear, we sewed…

I cannot begin to describe the feeling of elation and relief with which I finally tied off and snipped the final thread. Mama Valerius had fallen asleep some time before, the needle slipping from her fingers; I had gently tucked her in, but despite the lateness of the hour I had not been able to bring myself to stop, not when the dress was so close to being finished. And the next night, for the first time in weeks, I had a long and decent night's sleep.

My dress was finished!

[NOTE: if possible, find a pic online for notes.]

-ooOOoo-

It was Sunday; the theatre was dark, and Erik had insisted that I take the day off. "Have a nice long chat with your Mama," he had said as he gave me a last, lingering kiss goodnight. "Or go for a stroll. I know you haven't had much free time recently. You need some time for yourself; you look exhausted!"

I had happily complied, and shooed the maid away from the door when Nadir appeared for his usual Sunday afternoon visit. I was looking forward to sharing his company.

"You're looking well," he commented politely as I escorted him to Mama's bedroom.

"Thank you," I murmured in return. "As are you!"

"You've seemed a bit wan, this past while," he continued. "I was growing concerned. I was beginning to wonder if you'd had second thoughts."

"Second thoughts? About what?"

"About… Well, about everything. About Erik."

"About..? Oh, no! No, nothing like that," I laughed. "No, I've just been a bit tired."

"Your new schedule at the opera is very demanding," he remarked gravely.

"It is," I replied. "But we finally finished my wedding dress, so I was able to have a good night's sleep last night."

He stopped; I continued a step further before I noticed. "You finished your dress?" His brow wrinkled. "Do you mean that you have been staying up late every night to sew your wedding dress, on top of all your work at the Opera?"

"Yes, of course! How else would it be done in time?"

The corners of his mouth lifted. "Christine, you do know that Erik provided more than enough to hire a seamstress, do you not?"

My hand flew to my mouth in a mixture of shock and chagrin. "It honestly never even occurred to me," I confessed, embarrassed.

"Ah, well," he took my hand and returned it to his arm; "In my country it is traditional for the young woman and her female relatives to sew her wedding garments themselves. Perhaps here there is a similar tradition?"

"Perhaps there is," I allowed.

His eyes twinkled. "Then all is well. The dress is complete; that is all that matters. Your timing is quite wonderful, my dear. I have news; I will let Erik give you the details, but I think that you can guess what it is."

"You've found a church! Oh, Nadir, how wonderful! Thank you so much!" I could not help it; I danced a quick pirouette for joy before embracing him. "Thank you!"

"It was my pleasure," he murmured with a broad grin.

* * *

A/N:_ A relatively short chapter, this one. The next one is, I think, the most spotty of them; after that the chapters are virtually complete._


	19. Chapter 17: The Wedding Mass

Chapter 17: The Wedding Mass

[Wedding. Mama V. stays home.]

[Christine takes over from Carlotta for teh win]

[Review: "Oh, here's a good one, Christine! Listen to this: 'Experiencing Mme Daaé's clear, exquisite voice after that of La Carlotta's rather more voluptuous tones resembles nothing so much as a draught of clear, fragrant wine after eating too much German food.'"]

[Christine accepts an invitation to sing at the Duchess de Zurich's; it does not go well. She refuses all other invitations to appear in private.]

[…]"You'll need your corset, of course," he said, not quite hiding his disapproval of the garment, "But we will not lace it very tightly. The dress won't fit correctly without it but we don't want to impair your breathing."

I could not quite make up my mind if I was pleased by that or not. True, I wouldn't be able to sing as well with it laced up properly, and I wouldn't be able to eat more than a few mouthfuls without feeling quite ill if I had it laced up fashionably tight and, if I were to be completely honest, it was uncomfortable to wear it as tightly as fashion currently demanded; but I didn't want to look poorly dressed in such company!

Perhaps Erik read the look my face must have worn, for he said, "Try it on at least, before you decide you look fat!"

I slipped into the finest chemise he had provided, a lovely light garment of the finest Indian cotton, and donned the corset. I'd need his help to tighten it, of course, but with the spoon busk down the front I could at least get into it on my own.

"Erik, I'm ready," I called.

"Good," he called back; "Open the door, will you? My arms are full."

The dress Erik brought to me was astonishing; I had never seen anything like it. Unfolding the yards of pleats and drapes of the softest silk, I marvelled at the colour. I would feel like a princess with its luxurious folds of sapphire silk draped about me. White gloves of the finest satin I had ever seen would encase my arms; dainty slippers with flashing glass 'diamonds' were dyed to match the dress exactly.

Erik laced the corset to be simply snug, and helped me into the lovely dress. With his aid my hair was piled on top of my head, and held in place with his beautiful jewelled pins, a tiny diamond sparkling at the end of each one. Finally, from some pocket or other, he produced a beautiful sapphire necklace. Clear white stones framed the large blue stone in the middle; smaller versions of the pendant trailed their way along the silver chain. They flashed as he carefully lifted it over my head and fastened it.

"Oh, Erik… It's beautiful!" I breathed, hardly daring to touch it.

"It is now," he remarked. "Hold out your hand."

He fastened a matching bracelet around my wrist, and handed me dangling earrings. I was overwhelmed by his generosity; my fingers trembled so that he finally took the earrings from me and put them on himself. "Yes, they're all real," he said, amused, as I admired myself in my mirror, turning this way and that. "I know you're dying to ask."

I laughed, and pressed a quick, ardent kiss to his lips. "Thank you, Erik! I don't deserve such treasures!"

"You do, you know," he murmured, and led me into the parlour.

I could hardly hold still while he wrapped a white stole about my shoulders, I was so excited! To think that I, Christine Daaé, was to sing for a _duchess..!_ Papa would have been so proud.

The brougham dropped me off at the entrance to a magnificent house. It dominated one end of the small square; brilliant light burst forth from every window. Gay chatter spilled over the exquisitely carved balconies to cheer the street. It was something out of a fairy tale.

Hastily, not wanting to expose my throat to the cool night air, I climbed the marble steps and entered. Pausing near the door, I was relieved to see that the beautiful dress that Erik had provided was not one iota less fashionably cut, less richly coloured, less sumptuous than that of the elegant ladies inside. I would not look out of place.

Almost instantly, a butler, an elderly, stiffly formal, if not unkind man, approached me. But rather than taking my wrap, as I had expected, he courteously took my elbow and led me a little aside.

"Mademoiselle is the singer from the Opera?" he asked quietly.

"I am," I replied.

"Excellent. You will be singing shortly after supper; that is, at about eleven o'clock. I am told you were informed which pieces to prepare..?"

I had, indeed. I assumed this was to ensure that the musicians would have prepared the same music, and said so.

"Quite so." He coughed gently behind a gloved fist. "Is this, perchance, the first time Mademoiselle has sung to a private audience?"

"Not at all," I hastened to assure him. "It has simply been a while since I have sung for such an… _august_ gathering!"

He almost smiled at that. "I am sure you will acquit yourself admirably," he said. "If you will follow me..?"

He led me to a small door discreetly off to one side, and thence down a tight, plain corridor. "You may wait in the kitchen until you are sent for," he said over his shoulder as we descended a steep stair. "You may sample some of the returned hors'dourves, if you wish, but please do not touch the wine. Madame does not approve of drunkenness in her employees."

He opened another door and ushered me through into a bustling kitchen. "Is this 'er?" a red-faced, flustered woman demanded.

"This is the singer from the Opera," the butler replied stiffly.

"Right. Sit over there," and she nodded at a chair shoved into a corner, "And try to stay out of my way. _Georges!" _she bellowed over her shoulder, "Come and take this tray up!" A footman lounging by the fire hastily sprang erect, dusted himself off, seized the tray, and dashed out past the butler. That worthy man sniffed in disdain at him and, after a last glance around, left the room.

"'Ere," the woman, apparently one of the cooks, "You keep your eyes where they belong! That one's got himself a ladyfriend already. He don't need no opera slut sniffing around after him." She returned to her work with vigour, muttering under her breath.

[add more here]

I spent the better part of two hours in the chair in the corner, trying to ignore the dark glances the kitchen staff sent my way. The promised hors'dourves were not offered. I doubted they would have sat well anyways; this was hardly the way I had pictured the evening! I comforted myself with the thought of a late supper with Erik, or perhaps simply the luxury of a glass of wine and a long, hot soak in the lovely tub…

"Why 'e 'as to leave 'is trash down 'ere with decent folk-" muttered one of the scullions as she brushed past, arms laden with crockery. It was very difficult, but I managed to withdraw into my own thoughts to the extent, at least, that most of the muttered insults faded into the background. I did not want to cry; it would do my voice no good, and I refused to let any of them see how they had hurt me. But hurt it did, to be seen as no better than the most common whore! I went over the songs I was to sing in my head, humming them slightly under my breath, and tried to not think about how much I longed to be back with Erik. I was glad I had warmed up with him at the Opera, at least; it would have been best if I had been able to at least run a few scales now, but I did not want to draw any more attention to myself.

After an eternity the butler reappeared and waved me over. "Madame la Duchess will want you to sing shortly," he said, once again preceding me up the stairs. "The setting will be rather more intimate than the stage at the Opera; you will need to sing rather more quietly than you are used to."

"I have sung for small groups before," I hastened to assure him; "I will not deafen them."

"You misunderstand my meaning," he paused before a door. I could hear voices and tinkling laughter beyond, and the sounds of musicians tuning up. "You must sing quietly enough to not disturb their conversation, should they wish to continue. They must not be required to shout to be heard above you."

To say that I was speechless… I nodded my understanding, but inside I seethed. Oh yes, by all means, let us invite the newest star of the Opera to our little gathering! She can stand in the corner, where she will not disrupt the flow of our elegant after-dinner conversation, and quietly mouth a few songs. It will be such a coup for the famed Duchess!

But I would not be paraded about like a trained bear! Or an organ-grinders monkey. _Dance, little monkey! Dance! _I thought. _Very good. Now go away and be quiet; no one wants to have a filthy little beast like __**you**__ around…_

"—Wait here," the butler was saying, "And make your entrance when you hear me introduce you. You will sing your three songs, and then you may exit through this same door. You may leave your wrap here in the hall. Are you ready, then?" I nodded. "Very well." Quietly, he slipped through the door, leaving me to wait in the narrow corridor.

So, I was to be a trained monkey, was I? Well, I would sing their three songs, and I would sing them softly enough to not disturb their conversation. And they would stop and listen anyways, and beg for more, and I would smile and excuse myself. And then I would return home to Erik, and a warm bath and a glass of wine, and a late supper; and I would never ever sing for anyone in private again. Ever.

Thus resolved, I straightened my shoulders and waited.

Behind the door, the musicians had stopped. They must be ready. I carefully placed my stole on the uncarpeted floor, fur up so as to not dirty it, as there was nowhere else to leave it. Quickly, I ran my fingers over my hair, trying to confirm by touch alone that all was still in place, then smoothed my gloves and my gown. I took a few deep breaths, and tried to remember all that I had been taught about conquering nervousness.

A moment later, I heard his voice, "…The singer, Christine Daaé." To scattered applause, I made my entrance.

The brightly-lit room was filled with understated elegance. A multitude of candle-flames flashed in an endless array of glittering jewellery. Men and women, all dressed in their very finest, lounged about a large parlour, chatting with a studied casualness, on display for each other. To my left, nestled in a corner, discretely half-hidden behind a large potted fern, was a string quartet. I made my way to them.

They returned my nod, and the violinist pointed to a spot nearby with his bow. None of them spoke a word. I took my place, as indicated, and they immediately launched into the first piece.

I sang, quietly, discretely, but with every mote of talent I possessed. Determined that they would be unable to ignore me, to dismiss me as background noise, I poured my soul into each note. And they did pause. They paused, and listened…

And as I finished, they turned immediately back to resume their conversations, one or two of them desultorily applauding for a moment.

I was incensed. And hurt. The musicians continued into the second piece with barely a pause, but I barely came in at my cue. However, I was able to rally; I think even Erik would have approved of my presentation.

Once again, the musicians swung straight into the next piece. The few scattered claps were no more than I was expecting, this time, so at least I was not thrown off. The song ended; I curtsied.

I found that I had been hoping that they would at least acknowledge me when I finished my performance. And indeed, they did; at least a dozen of them paused long enough to applaud a few times.

"They barely clapped at all," I murmured to myself.

The violinist heard. "They never do," he murmured back, "But at least the Duchess pays well. You were good," he added.

I smiled a small thank you, and, as discretely as I could, I made my exit. On my way out, I overheard a man say to his companion, "One can see why she's so popular. She's a pretty little thing…"

The butler was once again waiting for me in the corridor. He did not hand me my wrap. Stooping with some difficulty in the elaborate dress, I managed to scoop it up and set it about my shoulders before turning to leave.

Behind me, he cleared his throat. "_This_ way, if you please, Mademoiselle..?"

He led me back down the way we had come, past the kitchens, to a small plain door. "Thank you, Mademoiselle; the Duchess was most pleased by your performance tonight," he said, handing me a small pouch. It jingled faintly.

"I am pleased to hear so," said I, somewhat distantly, not pleased at all. I had recognised her from her usual box at the Opera; she had not been one of those who had applauded.

"One can often find a cab five blocks down, along the main thoroughfare." He opened the door.

"Thank you; I have my own carriage waiting," I informed him rather coldly, and, head held high, I left.

The cold night air made me shiver despite the wrap. I found myself in a narrow alley beside the house. It was poorly lit, and deserted.

I was glad I had managed to dissuade Erik from coming in the brougham with me. This way, I could have a good cry on the way home, and not have to worry about disappointing him. I was sure he had shared my own dreams of a glorious night; well, it had not turned out at all the way either of us had expected, but there was no need for _him_ to know that. I would have my cry, and dry my face, and have a nice supper and then I would plead exhaustion, have my nice soak, and go to bed.

I hadn't reckoned on Erik's perceptiveness, however. He met me in my dressing room, swinging the mirror open almost as soon as I had shut my door.

"Christine," he began gaily, but then he stiffened. "What's wrong? What happened?"

I tried to assure him that it was simply the cold that had reddened my nose, and to tell him how wonderful the evening had been, but I just couldn't summon the energy. His concern undid my resolve. "Oh, Erik," I sobbed, throwing my arms around his neck, "It was _awful!_"

He held me close. "Did they hurt you?"

"No," I sniffed, "It's just that… they were so horrid!" I suddenly felt very young, and foolish. "They didn't invite me to supper after all; they made me wait in the kitchens, and called me an opera slut, and didn't clap at all, and made me use the servant's entrance to leave…"

I could feel him tense, but his voice was soft and kind as he said, "Never mind. You're home now. Come down to my house, and have something to eat; you can tell me all about it on the way. I have a small supper prepared," he added, drawing me down the passage with him; "I rather thought you might be hungry when you came home. There's no room for your stomach in those damnable corsets…"

* * *

_A/N: From The Phantom of the Opera, by Gaston Leroux: "Christine Daaé…sang once at the Duchess de Zurich's; but this was the last occasion on which she was heard in private."_

* * *

_A/N 2013: I SWEAR to you that I didn't copy the necklace from "Love Never Dies". We hadn't even heard of the sequel when I wrote it; if anything, I was probably influenced by Rose's necklace in Titanic. But hey, it's a pretty necklace and more or less of the right style and I'm pretty sure it's got sapphires as well, so while it's a bit more ornate than what I was picturing, if you want to picture that one, go ahead. _

_But I SWEAR I didn't copy it. XD_


	20. Chapter XX: The Resurrection of Lazarus

A/N: _This was a hard chapter to write, and a harder chapter (for me) to read, but, you see, my own mother died about a year before I first started posting this fic. I felt compelled to write it, and I think I did a good job with it; but it's too painful for me. This is the real sticking-point; each time I tried to do something more with this, I'd get to this part, and that would be it._

_It's "Chapter XX" not because it's Chapter 20; but because I use XX as a placeholder; they stand out when I'm scanning through. This lets me know that it's the start of a new chapter, but I wouldn't know which chapter until I had finished the intervening ones._

_I had intended to have more happen between that last one and this; I believe Christine's the Prima Donna by now, or close to it. Certainly there would have been a lot more drama with Carlotta which, I will admit, I was quite looking forwards to when I started this expansion of the final two chapters. But-but._

* * *

Chapter XX: The Resurrection of Lazarus

We were lingering over our morning coffee when the Sunday quiet was shattered by a thunderous knocking at the door. "What in the world-?" I looked at Erik, then hastened to the front hall.

Opening the door, I found a ragged youngster on the stoop, blowing as though he had run all the way from town. "Telegram, Madame," he wheezed out, pressing the yellowy paper into my astonished hands. "Urgent!"

I automatically thanked and tipped him before opening the sheet. Scanning the few hasty lines before me, I swear I felt the ground tilt, even as icy fingers clutched at my heart. "Oh, no," I whispered, "No-! Erik," I called, dashing inside to don boots and my jacket as fast as possible; "Erik!"

He came at once. "It's Mama," I babbled, as he scooped the missive up and read it. "Oh, Erik! She's… I must go at once!"

"Of course you must," he murmured, and shouted through the door, "Find me a cab within five minutes and there's twenty sous in it for you!"

The poor urchin was still drooping on our porch; however, the twenty sous seemed to have an almost magical recuperative effect, for his cheery voice drifting back through the door assured us that he would be back in moments. Erik, meanwhile, quickly donned his own usual black mask, and also quickly prepared for our sad journey.

In truth, it could not have been much more than a handful of minutes before we heard hooves clopping to a standstill in the lane outside; I grabbed a last handful of handkerchiefs and dashed back to the front door, stuffing them into my already bulging reticule. The boy was grinning at us from his seat beside the driver; his smile faltered into uncertainty as he saw Erik's mask, but he brightened immediately when Erik paid him as promised. Erik handed me into the small cab, gave the driver directions to my old flat, and even as he swung up beside me, we were off.

The driver made all the haste he could, whipping the horse up to a fine speed, but still, the journey took too long—too long! Unconsciously I leant forwards, trying to urge the cab even faster. My pulse thundered in my ears, _too soon! Too soon!_

My own mother had died when I was barely six; I remembered very little of her. And losing my beloved Papa had almost killed me, quite literally. But there is a special bond between mother and daughter, and my Mama, poor Mama Valerius, had been a mother to me in all but fact for over a decade, for almost forever.

And now, she, too, was dying.

That was very likely the best time we ever made from our little cottage into Paris; it was the longest journey of my life. I flew up the stairs to the flat, not even waiting for Erik, who lingered only long enough to pay the driver. All was silent within. Hesitantly I raised my hand; what if we were too late? This might be the very last moment in which she was still alive, to me; the very last moment before I knew without a doubt that she was gone. Quietly, almost against my will, I knocked.

The door flew open almost at once; the housekeeper, for it was she, must have been very near to it. "Oh, thank Heaven you've come, Madame!" she breathed, ushering me inside. "No, you're in time; she's still here." The rush of relief I felt was almost drowned in a wave of sorrow: she was still dying. "Oh, Monsieur," she added, glancing in curiosity at his mask as Erik joined me.

"Madame," he nodded quietly.

The sitting room was like a tomb already; the windows were all heavily draped, shutting in both gloom and stuffiness. Softly, not wanting to disturb her if she was resting, I crept to the door of Mama's bedroom. "Mama?" I called softly.

She lay, frightfully frail and wan, upon her bed; her head turned to me, but her eyes remained unfocussed. "Christine," she replied, weakly, "Is that you?"

"She cannot see anymore, not since this morning," said the housekeeper quietly to me as I went in. "The doctor came, but he can do nothing; he says she hasn't long."

I could see that for myself. Her face, never plump, was sunken; her eyes were shadowed and drooped. She was but a ghost of her former self already; but as I sat on the bed beside her and took her hand, she brightened, and in the curve of her lips I found the echo of her former merry smile. "Christine! You've come…! I'm so… glad."

My heart broke to hear how she had to gasp for breath between words. Her breath came slowly, oh, so slowly! But she was still alive. For these few minutes more, I still had my Mama.

"I'm here, Mama," I said, and paused. I didn't know what to say to her. To ask after her health was absurd; to tell her I loved her was too profound, too final. I told her anyways.

"Oh, Christine, my dearest; I have always loved you too," she replied, her own eyes misting over. "You have always been my daughter, in every way that mattered." She paused for a long moment, but as I was just thinking that she had fallen asleep she stirred and asked, "Christine, dear… Is your good genius, your Angel, here with you?"

"He is, Mama."

"I should… very much like to… finally meet him."

She was weakening rapidly. Hurriedly I went to the door and beckoned Erik in. He came, brushing off what looked very much like a feather from the duster against his palm. "She wants to meet my Angel," I whispered.

"Of course," he murmured, and went to stand a little way from her bed.

She must have heard him. "Angel?" she called to him, "Is that you?"

"I am here, Madame Valerius," he said. His voice, which seemed to hover in the air above her bed, was low, but it was the Voice, the Voice of my Angel of Music, that spoke. The room seemed too small, somehow, to hold it; when I closed my eyes I could almost hear the beat of his wings.

"Angel… Angel," she called softly to him, reaching out a hesitant hand, "Have you come for me?"

The look on her face was that of a child hesitating to ask for a treat it desires, for fear the asking will lead to denial. He ignored her hand; _of course_, I thought, _it will be too cold and thin for the hand of an Angel! _but instead brushed the feather, the wing of an angel, lightly against her cheek. "I have," he murmured gently; "I am here for you."

She sighed, I thought in relief. "Will you… you _will_ take good care of Christine for me, won't you?"

"Of course."

"That's good," she sighed again; "Oh, I am so tired!"

I sat down beside her and took her poor thin hand in my own again, pressing it to my lips as I fought back tears. "I love you, Mama!" I whispered again, as Erik began to quietly hum, then sing the Resurrection of Lazarus: "Come! And believe in me! Whoso believes in me shall live! Walk! Whoso believes in me shall never die…"

Mama closed her eyes, a smile of absolute rapture on her face. She took a slow breath, and another… and that was all.

Erik finished the song and fell silent. Hiding my face in my hands, at last I wept.

She was laid to rest beside her husband, the good Professor Valerius, in a tiny Parisian churchyard under a grey and drizzly sky. The weather matched my mood perfectly; had the Spring morning dawned bright and beautiful it would have broken my heart. I barely heard the words the priest spoke over her. Her face was peaceful as I bent down to press a final kiss to her cold forehead and murmur a last 'goodbye', but the _click_ of the coffin closing echoed through my mind like the door of a tomb slamming to. It was too small a sound to mark something so very final.

Thank God for Erik! He came with me, and stood beside me, and ignored the curious glances of the other few mourners completely. Without his comforting arm around my shoulders I would have been utterly lost. He was my anchor, my one shelter from the storm of emotion that threatened to overwhelm me. One moment I was numb, watching almost as if it were someone else who shook the hands of those others, received their murmured words of sympathy; the next it would be all I could do to stand up, to remember to breathe.

Mama Valerius was dead.

"Come," Erik whispered to me at last; "It's time to go home."

Performing was out of the question. Opera is emotional by nature; had I simply been singing scales on stage it would have been too much for me; performing so many works about death and loss was utterly beyond me. My throat would close; choking, I would have to stop. Erik sent a quiet telegram to the managers, as my husband rather than as the Ghost, I believe, requesting that I be allowed some time to myself to mourn. A month's leave was granted.

"Only a month-!" I sighed, as he told me of the reply he'd received. "I cannot imagine that I will have forgotten her in only a month!"

"No, you will never forget her; nor should you! But with a month's time to work, I may be able to help you to channel your grief, to use it in your performance, rather than to allow it to overwhelm you."

"All right." I paused, then asked, "Erik, when will I ever stop missing her? Will it always hurt so much?"

"You'll stop missing her when she is no longer dead," he replied softly. "And yes, the grief will be easier to bear, with time."

"But it won't go away."

"No."

He seemed distant; I wondered. "Did… Did you ever lose someone, Erik?"

He came back to himself then, and smiled at me, a little sadly. "No; there has never been anyone but you whom I cared for. But I have seen what others go through, who lose someone they love. Sometimes, I wondered…"

He shook himself slightly and continued, rather briskly, "So we have one month to prepare. Come; finish your breakfast, and we will begin!"

_A/N: I have seen other Mama Valerius's in other fics; sometimes they die too. She was, after all, an old woman, and in poor health. But, far too often, her death seems to me more the disposal of an encumbrance than the loss of a beloved relative. So, here, I drew upon my own experiences with the death and memorial of my own mother, who died in the early Spring of 2005. The deaths were similar in that they were both peaceful and at home; other than that, only the emotions involved were taken from life. But the death of _any_ mother is not to be taken lightly by those whom she loved, and who loved her._

* * *

Afterword_: ...And that was that. Christine was to go on to take the lead and become La Christine, the prima donna herself; there was to be the wedding in there. Erik's black vest would have been embroidered with silver thread, of course, and the only ones attending would have been Nadir, with a sub-altern or something as the second witness. _

_But soon after Mum died, I wrote that final scene, Christine's own flight back to Paris, her hesitation upon the threshold, a grim and, to me, heart-breaking echo of my own twelve-hour frantic drive home. We made it; my own mother was able to hold my newborn son, her first grandchild, twice before she died._

_She would have made a great grandma._

_I have been promising an expansion of "Through A Mirror, Darkly" (I still prefer "Pavhabati's Lesson" as a title) for what, eight years now? And each time I pulled it out again, intending to write more, to finally finish my promised expansion, I would hit that wall, that final scene, and be too overcome to be able to continue (even just rereading it last night cost me about five kleenexes). Eventually I simply stopped trying._

_There was going to be lots more; reading this over now, I think I could wrap it up in perhaps one, maybe two more chapters. I have decided to share what I have already; I figure knowing it's already out here will force me to finally write that final bit. Hopefully it doesn't feel too out-of-place, whatever I end up coming up with; I still love these characters, and this version of them, but it's been almost a decade(!) since I wrote this. My style has changed; _I_ have changed._

_I _am_ still writing POTO—I have a few chapters of a thoroughly indulgent piece of nonsense that I will likely start to share as soon as I can think of a better title than "Crackfic2" (I really am dreadful at titles). And I have another—well, several—I'm not quite done yet! But I have a full-time job now, plus a rather long commute—well, I _will_ post again! But I can't say precisely when. If you want the notification of when the final chapter here is up do please follow this story; considering my schedule, I can pretty much guarantee it won't be this week and to be perfectly honest I would be shocked if it was even this month (that being September 2013 as I write this)._

_Thank you all so much for your patience, and your reviews, over the years! It is chiefly that which prompts me to finally share what I have._

_-Oh, and how's this for the picture? Of the wedding dress, I mean. I don't remember researching anything in particular but I had this picture on my hard drive from a costuming project I was planning last year. I think it works well for Christine, even if it isn't made out of the silk I described. /oyjlc83_

_Oh, and hey! Here's something cool: an ad from the end of the Victorian period. See the woman on the left? That's Christine Nilsson, the Swedish Nightingale, and the woman it is believed Leroux based our Christine on. Neat. /p8j2gg2_

_Oh, and hey, have this too: /of73xy6_

_Thank you all for your reviews and support over the years. It has meant more to me than you'll ever know._

_~Kryss LaBryn, Nova Scotia, Canada, September 2013._


End file.
